A Picture Worth a Thousand Words
by Orlissa
Summary: Collection of Skyeward drabbles based on picture prompts submitted to my Tumblr. Updated daily.
1. Watch Over Me

**A/N:** Having finished with my Taylor Swift drabbles, here's my new project: drabbles based on pictures submitted by you! Sadly, FF doesn't allow embedded pictures, so I can't show the pic of the day to you here. To see it, please visit my Tumblr blog – orlissa –, and find the picture of the day under the tag "picture drabbles". I plan daily updates on this story as well, and intended to keep it going as long as you supply me with pictures :)  
 **Disclaimer:** [Insert funny text here that tells you I don't own Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.]

* * *

 **Watch Over Me**

There was a time when Grant used to think that babies were boring. After all, they barely do anything – they sleep, they cry, they eat, they poop, and that's about it.

It isn't the case anymore though – somewhere along the way he realized that there were very few things that were more interesting than babies.

Maybe it all started when Skye's belly began to round, and it dawned upon him that there was actually a growing baby in there. When she began to move around, things got incredibly more interesting – he remembers the early days, when Skye'd freeze suddenly, or would put her hand absent-mindedly on her bump, scaring him a little.

"It's okay," she'd tell him, "she's just moving around," prompting him to rush to her side anyway, placing his hand on her belly. It was, of course, weeks before he could have felt it, but he still tried anyway. And when the kicks got strong enough that he could not only feel, but see them, he was completely mesmerized – he could have sat by Skye's side for hours, watching the taut skin of her belly ripple as their daughter kicked and punched.

And when she was finally born, it was as if new age had started from him – and suddenly, there was nothing more interesting in the world than her.

Even now, three months later, just watching her sleep seems like the best way to pass his time. She grows and changes so much every day, he can barely keep track of everything. Now she smiles at almost everything and lifts her head and turns around, and her eyes have starts to turn brown. Her hair is growing and thickening, and her features are getting more defined, and he's in love.

Completely and utterly in love with his tiny daughter.

A soft chuckle pulls him from his reverie.

"You are at it again?" Skye asks, standing at the doorway.

His smile gets even wider.

"Hush," he chastises softly. "She's asleep. And anyway, can you blame me?"

Shaking her head she walks to him and kneels next to him on the floor by the bed. On the mattress there sleeps their daughter on her stomach, her lips pouting in the most adorable way as she dreams.

"No, not at all. She's perfect." He sees the same, overwhelming love in her eyes as she watches the baby he feels himself.

"Well, she takes after her mother."

This makes her chuckle again, then lean her head on his shoulder. She doesn't say a word for a few seconds, just lets out a happy sigh.

"I'm so lucky to have you," she tells him finally. "All I ever wanted was a family – and yet I never thought I would actually have it, at least not as beautiful as it is."

He has no words to answer her – no words that adequately could tell her that he feels the same; that she and Haylie mean the world to him; that he still can't believe he got so lucky. So he simply takes her chin into his hand, turns her head towards him and presses a soft kiss against her lips, pouring all his love into it.


	2. Change of Plans

**Change of Plans**

They agreed to get a dog – because that's what young couples who just bought a house did, they got pets to practice taking responsibility (none of them was yet comfortable enough to say out loud what they were practicing it for), and anyway, dogs are useful. Adopting one from a shelter and doing something good in the process was just an added bonus.

So, yeah, they were going to get a dog. He just made a mistake when upon arriving at the shelter he let Skye wander around, saying that he wanted to survey the pups himself first, anyway (this was his preventive move to stop her from choosing a dog just because it was cute). He had a method – a well-researched method, thank you very much –, after all: try to scare them away, then work with those who didn't get scared. Look at the paws, how big they are – the bigger the better. How sociable they seem, how fast they might learn. So, yes, he had it all planned out, and within twenty minutes he had three possible candidates for them to adopt. Now, he only needed Skye so they could decide together, therefore it was time to find her.

He knew his plan on getting the perfect dog was a bust the moment he saw her.

Skye was standing in front of the cats' kennels, gazing down lovingly at the white-tan-and-black fluffy little _something_ in her hands that was definitely not a dog. Dogs did not purr like crazy, not even when his amazing fiancée was petting them.

When she heard him approach and she lifted her head to look at him, her eyes twinkling brilliantly, he knew he lost this battle even before it started.

"Grant, look!" she called over excitedly, with a happy grin on her face. "Look whom I've found! Isn't she just adorable?" And with that she thrust the kitten at him, forcing him to cradle her against his chest. The cat first sneezed at him, then nuzzled against his hand as if she wanted to say "hello, big, strange, future feeder! I'd like to express my adoration towards you." "How can you not love her?" Skye continued. "And she seems to like you, too!"

Okay, the cat was kind of cute. But still, he wanted a dog. Not a cat. Definitely not a cat.

But Skye clearly wanted this fuzzy little purrball, and he was really bad at denying her anything, so he just sighed.

"Alright. Let's take her." Hearing his approval, Skye squealed, and, mindful of the cat, pressed a kiss against his cheek, instead of jumping into his neck. "But she is not sleeping on the bed!"

They were supposed to get a dog, and they got a cat – but since Skye was happy, he could live with it.

(And, of course, the cat slept on the bed.)


	3. Reunion by the Rails

**Reunion by the Rails**

Six weeks in deep undercover with no contact other than the required reports and even those kept brief, no "I'm okay, don't worry about me, Skye" in them, and when it's finally over he says he'll just take the goddamned _train_ back to the closest base – back to them (because it's only logical – the point of the mission is that the target won't even know that he's been under supervision, and a S.H.I.E.L.D. extraction team would be kinda telling).

But still – he takes the damned train, one of the slowest means of transportation known to mankind (okay, to be honest everything seems like the slowest means on transportation to her that doesn't get him back to her in this instant), and for it, she could choke him. Right after she kisses the living daylight out of him, of course.

"It's late," she sighs, looking at her watch, then at the still empty platform – for the tenth time in about ten minutes. "It should have arrived minutes ago."

Jemma just sighs, while Fitz anxiously drums on the armrest of the bench they are sitting on. At first they were delighted that Coulson allowed them to pick Grant up from the station, but with Skye's impatience it is quickly becoming a burden. Plus the train really is late.

It's five more minutes – and three more impatient comments from Skye – before the train they've been waiting for finally rolls in. Skye's already up and running towards it even before the doors open, leaving Fitz and Simmons behind, scanning the crowd of passengers getting off the train for Grant. Of course he is one of the last people exiting the train, calm and collected, a bag hanging from his shoulder.

The moment Skye sees him a wide, happy grin blossoms on her face.

It takes Grant a beat longer to spot her, and when he does, she's already running towards him at full speed, and he barely has enough time to call her name before she is launching herself into his arms, almost knocking him to the ground – he actually has to take a step back to regain his balance. But when he does, and her feet is back on the ground, he holds her close, swaying slowly from left to right, his nose buried in her hair, inhaling her sweet scent that he missed so much, while he can feel her smile against his neck.

They stay like that for a long time, the world dead to them, then it's Skye who finally pulls away. She looks up at him, raises a hand to his face, caressing his cheek lovingly, then she stands on the tip of her toes, and presses a kiss against his lips.

"Never go on a mission that long again, understood? At least not without me," she tells him the strictest voice she can muster before kissing him again. "I missed you."

He just smiles down at her brilliantly before he crushes her against his chest once again.

"I promise, never again." He places a kiss on the crown of her head. "I missed you too. Missed you so much."


	4. Vast Nothingness

**Vast Nothingness**

"Are you sure it's the rendezvous point?"

"Yes, Skye."

"But it's the middle of nowhere!"

"That's kind of the point."

Skye just huffed and hopped on the top of the car's hood, gazing down at the seemingly endless road in front of them, embraced by the great desert.

"It's kinda beautiful, you know," she said after a while. "This whole… nothingness. I mean, of course, it's not nothing. It's a road and mountain and shrubs, and maybe a rattlesnake or two, but still, there's some strange beauty to it, don't you think? In this whole… vastness." She babbled on, mostly to herself, not really expecting Ward to answer.

But he did. He took off his sunglasses, walked to her, leaned against the hood, and, gazing into the distance, he said, "It's the feeling of infinity, I think." He gestured towards the horizon. "Everything is so great, and it makes you feel small, insignificant, but at the same time, it's calling to you, urging you to go and explore it. It makes you feel like you could reach anything."

For the longest moment Skye didn't say a word, only stared at her S.O., her mouth open in awe.

"Wow," she said at last. "Who would have thought? There's a philosopher lost in you, Robot!"

Ward cracked an amused half-smile.

"I try."

"Hm," Skye hummed, swinging her legs. "You should try more often. It fits you well," she smiled. He didn't answer – at least not in words; but he did look at her, right in the eyes, and smiled.

Silence descended upon them.

"How long until they…?"

"Three hours."

"And Thor first arrived to Earth somewhere around here, right?"

"Yeah, his hammer was found not that far from here."

"Could we…?"

"No."


	5. Fools Fooling Around

**Fools Fooling Around**

When she first met him, Skye would have never thought that Grant Ward would make a clingy boyfriend. A good lover, yes, with his determined demeanor, but not a boyfriend who is overly into PDA.

She was wrong.

She had to learn early in their budding relationship that Grant thrived on touch – it was almost like he suddenly wanted to make up for the years he went without gentleness with his relationship with her. He was always looking for some kind of physical contact, let it be just holding her hand, or having her sit on his lap in the lounge, or sneakily putting his arms around her waist or shoulders. Not that she minded it – not at all.

But his fondness for physical contact, coupled with his healthy – very healthy, if Skye may say so – sex drive (because she was right about him being a good lover) sometimes did got them into awkward situations. (Not that she minded them in hindsight.)

There was one particular incident, when she was in the galley of the Playground, preparing dinner while softly humming to herself, when suddenly a warm presence appeared behind her. She didn't react, just smiled to herself, eager to see what was to follow. Ever so gently, Grant swept her hair to one side, then his lips descended upon the soft skin of her neck, making her giggle, while his hands found their way around her waist, pulling her close against his chest.

"What's with this eagerness, Robot?" she asked, refusing to turn around.

"I missed you," he murmured against her skin, making her chuckle.

"You see me, what? Three hours ago? You know when…" Her voice trailed off as his fingers deftly sneaked under her top, caressing the taut skin of her stomach.

"I know. It felt like an eternity," then bit down gently at the juncture of her neck.

She was quickly turning into jelly under his attentive touch – not that it was a new phenomenon.

"You are incorrigible," she meant to say, but what left her mouth was little more than a needy moan.

"Not that you'd want to change me," he countered, then, encouraged be her body's tells, his hand sneaked southward, cupping her through her jeans, while simultaneously he grinded his groin against her backside, letting her feel everything.

The sensations were overwhelming; a loud gasp escaped her lips. She was hot and already so wet, so ready for him (damn him), and if it was up to her, they would–

"Honestly, guys," Lance's mildly annoyed voice broke her Grant-induced trace. "We eat here. Couldn't you take it somewhere else? Like your room?"

She almost pouted when Grant pulled away. Damn Lance and damn his terrible timing. They were this close to having sex on the counter, which would have been, she admitted, a tad bit unsanitary, but damn, she wanted it. Bad.

"Thank you, Hunter, for your sage advice," she told him simply, albeit a little angrily, then grabbed Grant's belt, and started pulling him out of the galley.

"To our bunk?" Grant asked as if reading her mind as soon as they were out of the galley.

"To our bunk," she confirmed, giving his belt a firm tug.

(In hindsight – at least it wasn't Coulson who found them.)


	6. What Do You want?

**A/N:** Technically, this is not Skyeward (although there are references), but more like solely Grant-centric. I just thought you should know.

* * *

 **What Do You Want?**

"What do you want, Grant?"

It shouldn't have been a difficult question, but for somebody who had never been asked this in his whole life, it was. It was fucking difficult, and he honestly didn't know how to answer. He had some vague ideas, but… was he supposed to voice them? Was there a good and a bad answer? Or it didn't matter at all, as long as he answered truthfully? But what was the truth?

Instead of answering, he buried his face in his hands and groaned.

"It's okay. No need to rush. Take your time," Andrew – he insisted he called him Andrew, while he called him Grant; something about building trust – assured him gently.

After he tried to kill himself with that button on his pants, Coulson made a move that completely surprised Grant: he called in a psychologist to talk with him. True, that psychologist was May's ex, that made things a bit awkward, but he realized early on that Andrew genuinely thought that he needed help and actually wanted to help him, so he could put up with some awkwardness.

His holding conditions had been greatly improved the moment Andrew started treating him. He pointed out that this complete lack of stimuli was bad for Grant, so he was given a tablet – it was sturdy, indestructible, and had no internet connection, but it had a couple dozen books and a couple of simple games on it, and he could even takes notes using it. Andrew also stated that complete solitary was bad for him, and prescribed daily human interaction for him – true, it was never somebody he actually wanted to see who came down to talk to him (it was mostly a new guy, a merc named Hunter, who talked too much, but had a refreshing sense of humor), but he still had to admit that it was helping. And then, of course, he had his sessions with Andrew – at least twice a week, sometimes more frequently, depending on how busy his shrink was.

"Grant?" Andrew called after some time. Grant lowered his hands, but his gaze remained fixed on the floor.

"I want to go back."

"Back where?"

"To the Bus. To the team. Before… everything." he wasn't sure whether it was a good answer, but it felt like an honest one.

"Good. Can you tell me why?" Andrew urged him.

"I…" He cleared his throat. "It was good. I felt like I belonged. They liked me for who I was, not because of what I could do for them," he wasn't exactly sure it happened that way, but at least he was sure the team didn't use and emotionally manipulate him like Garrett had. "It felt like a fa…" The word died on his lips.

"A family?" Andrew supplied, to which Grant gave a barely visible nod. "It's okay; you can say it."

"It felt like I had a family."

"Great," Andrew praised him. "In what way? Can you tell me?"

"They… We were there for each other. We stuck together." He felt like his throat was closing up. "And I ruined it."

There was a beat of silence, and then…

"Do you regret it?"

"Of course!" Grant snapped, standing up from the edge of his mattress. "Of course I do! I ruined everything that was good in my life! And I ruined it for them, too!"

"Then why did you do it?"

Grant felt like ripping his hair out, but he was afraid an act like that would land him back on tranquilizers.

"I don't know," he said, tears welling in his eyes. "I don't know!" He collapsed back on the bed.

"I can tell you why" Andrew said, leaning forward. "You were put in an impossible situation. You were deprived of a healthy emotional development, and thus forged unhealthy attachments – attachments that were so strong that when you found healthy ones, they couldn't be strong enough to break it. You weren't strong enough to break it. You had no appropriate role models, nobody to guide you to the right path. You were placed in a situation where you had no basis to make the right decision."

"It wasn't my fault?"

"You were at fault," Andrew stated, "But ultimately it wasn't your fault. It was your family's fault, and Garrett's fault, and everybody else's who didn't recognize it. It doesn't absolve you from your mistakes, but it gives space so now, free of their influence, you can correct them." He paused to let it sink in. "Now I'll ask again: what do you want, Grant?"

Grant sighed, then, forcing himself to look into the doctor's eyes, he said, "I want to be back on the team. I want to help. I want Fitz clap me on the back, and Simmons to fuss over me, and Skye… I want a second chance to make things right. Coulson always said people deserve a second chance."

Andrew actually smiled at him hearing this.

"Good. I am happy we have established this," he said, starting to gather his papers together. "I think it'll be enough for today."

"But I can't have it, right?" Grant asked barely a second later. "I can't go back to the team."

Andrew stopped mid movement.

"I can't speak in the name of your team. But I think we have reached a breakthrough, and I see hope for you. And you should know that I fully intend to inform your team about it – but it's up to them what they do with this information."

Grant simply nodded. It was good, he guessed, although he didn't dare to hope –it was worse to hope for something and not getting it that not hoping at all, right?

The next day when the vault's door opened, announcing the arrival of his daily conversation partner, it wasn't Hunter – but Skye.

"Hi Ward," she greeted him with a tentative half-smile.

Maybe there really was hope for him yet.


	7. Observations from the Galley

**Observations from the Galley**

"Do you think they are together? I think they are together," Jemma mused, resting her elbows on the counter in the Bus's galley.

"Huh? Who?" Fitz asked in a somewhat disoriented fashion – his mind was pretty preoccupied with how to upgrade the D.W.A.R.F.'s, thank you very much – as he turned towards Jemma with a mug of tea in his hand.

"Them," she stage-whispered, casually gesturing towards the other end of the lounge, where Skye and Ward were standing. Leaning against the counter and squinting a little, Leo followed Jemma's gaze.

"Huh…" he observed. There might have been something in what Jemma said. Skye and Ward really did stand a little too close to each other, seemingly unaware that they weren't alone in the lounge, and they were talking animatedly, and, well, they were… giggling. Okay, so Skye was giggling, or more like chuckling – which in itself wasn't that unusual –, and Ward was smiling. Like, genuinely smiling, as if Skye'd just said something really funny, or as if she was one of the most precious things in his world. And then it went further: Ward – I avoid physical contact whenever I can Ward – raised his hand and gently squeezed Skye's upper arm. "Look at that…" Fitz murmured. "I didn't even realize they have become such good friends," he said looking at Jemma, then took a sip from his tea.

"Friends? You think they are friends?" Jemma asked turning with her whole body towards Fitz, sounding half scandalized-half interested.

"Yeah," Fitz shrugged. "And it's good to see that Ward is making friends."

"Hmm…" Jemma hummed, turning back towards their teammates, who were still deeply engaged in their conversation, while slowly – at least it seemed like that to Jemma – gravitating towards each other. "You might be right, but it still seems a little odd to me. I think they are past a simple friendship by now."

"No, no," Fitz shook his head. "You know how by the book Ward is. He'd never–"

His sentence was cut off the next moment, when – taking the young scientist completely by surprise – Ward leaned in and pressed a quick peck against Skye's lips. The pair seemed to freeze for a moment, then Skye's hand sneaked behind Ward's neck, pulling to man closer to herself and deepening the kiss.

Simmons turned, once again, towards her best friend, this time with narrowed eyes.

"Friends, you say?"

Fitz hid his face behind his mug as his sipped at his tea.

"Okay, that was unexpected," said finally, then quickly turned around and left the lounge.


	8. Meadow-Dance

**Meadow-Dance**

 _Hannah - Skye is always trying to get Ward to loosen up and act silly like dancing in an empty field =) P.S. You don't know how pleased I am to see that you're still around following that horrendous thing called a finale._

 _Dear Hannah, I relocated them a bit, I hope it's okay :)_

* * *

Tony Stark is holding a stupid garden party and they were all invited, but if Coulson wasn't the guest of honor (being an honorary Avenger and being back from the dead and all), Grant wouldn't have even bothered to come (it all hits too close to home, reminds him too much of the schmoozing his parents did and all the appearances they held up when he was a child).

But Coulson _is_ the guest of honor, and his whole team – his whole _family_ – is here, so he came along as well, even if he just can't find it himself enjoying the party. So he chooses to simplí stand aside, a champagne flute in hand, and observe the festivities from afar. It's so not his game.

Of course, he shouldn't have expected to be left along for too long.

Skye finds him just as the Sun starts to disappear behind the horizon. She is a vision, even more so than usually, in her lace-pleated white sundress, her hair loose and curling, her cheeks red from excitement and happiness (which awakens this crazy urge in him to kiss her). She smiles at him, happy and confident and mischievous, then takes the flute from him, placing it on the nearby table, then, taking his hand, she leads him even further away from the party. He lets her.

"Where are we going?"

Skye chuckles at his question.

"Just away," she answers. "You are so brooding today, when everybody is having such a great time. It's unacceptable." Then she leans closer and whispers into his ear, "And anyway, you are so much more handsome when you smile." (He wonders how much she has drunk – although she doesn't seem intoxicated, just happy, carefree.) "And I wanna make you smile."

She stops at the edge of the meadow that embraces Stark's estate, then, taking both of his hands in hers, she turns towards him. Looking deep into his eyes (he could count the colors in her irises) she stands there for five, six, seven heartbeats, then – it's nothing more than a blink of an eye – she raises herself on the tip of toes, and press a quick kiss against his lips.

Afterwards, she just looks at him coyly, teasingly, then starts dancing.

She is dancing – on the edge of a meadow full of wildflowers, with a fancy party in the distance, with classical music in the air, but to her own rhythm, her skirt flying around her, pulling him after her.

He does the only thing that's logical: he dances with her.

(And he smiles.)


	9. Turn, Turn, Turn

_Submitted by agentnightshade - The way he's looking at her; like he just lost the most precious thing in the world and he prays to whatever God is listening that if she makes it out of this? He'll tell her everything, to hell with the consequences. She means more to him than John Garrett ever did, he's going to make him pay._

* * *

 **Turn, Turn, Turn**

He keeps it together somehow until they get to the trauma center, but as soon as she's wheeled into surgery, he falls apart. He stands frozen at the double doors of the operating ward for what feels like an eternity, his palm on the glass (leaving bloody marks behind – her blood) long after she is out of his sight, already behind another set of doors, and when the others retreat to the waiting room, he falls behind and hides in an empty stairwell.

There he breaks.

He can barely breathe and his vision is blurry and he fears his legs will give away. He pounds at the wall until his knuckles split open, his blood mixing with hers.

It takes him a good ten minutes to compose himself – until at least he reaches a level when he feels like he can breathe again without his chest collapsing and speak without his tears spilling. He reaches for his pocket, pulling his phone out – his hands shake so much, he can barely dial.

He has a terrible suspicion. He has to…

Garrett picks up at the second ring.

"Son?" His voice is eerily calm. "Everything alright?"

He takes one long, hard breath before speaking.

"It was you." His voice is barely above whisper, yet strong, unwavering. "You told Quinn to shot her."

There's a moment of dead silence on the other end of the line. And then–

"Is she alive?" _He is not concerned about her. He just wants to know if his plan is still in motion._

"Barely. She's in surgery." He doesn't tell him how frail, how pale she looked when they lifted her into the hyperbolic chamber; how terrified he was that he'd already lost her.

"Good. She needs to be on the brink of it. That's the only way we can get Coulson do what we want. Grant, don't forget why –"

He hangs up. He doesn't need to hear more. (Garrett tries to call back; he smashes the phone against the wall.)

Garrett is ready to sacrifice Skye. She is dying because of him, and he doesn't even feel a bit of remorse.

And Grant? All Grant is feeling is fury and desperation and panic. He can't lose her – if she dies, a part of him will die with her. She just can't… Not before he gets to tell her how he feels, how she has become his whole world in these last few months. How he believes that she could be his savior. How he loves her.

His forehead against the bloodied wall, he breathes heavily. He has to do something. He has to save Skye, and he has to… He has to stop Garrett. It all must come to an end before he could hurt anybody else, before he could lay one more finger on her.

But how?

He is not big enough for this.

He can't do it alone.

He makes a decision in a blink of an eye.

To the hell with the consequences. He doesn't care if he'll be fired or gets thrown into prison after this. Hell, he doesn't care if he lives or dies after this. All he cares about is that she has to live and Garrett has to be stopped (it's not about his survival anymore; it hasn't been about that in a long time.)

He leaves the stairwell and marches to waiting room, determined, unrelenting. There he stands in front of Coulson, not caring about that everybody is staring at him, at his bloody knuckles, his red eyes, his pale face.

"Sir, we need to talk."


	10. Of Possessiveness and Insecurities

**Of Possessiveness and Insecurities**

When they first met – when they first started dating –, Grant's personality was so dominated by his seriousness, focus, and "get the job done" attitude, that Skye would have never thought that he'd make a big goofball of a boyfriend who considered her both his biggest accomplishment and his greatest treasure, and who sometimes went a little overboard with declaring their relationship.

But he was. And it drove her up the wall sometimes.

It first became painfully evident when they made the Playground their permanent base, and Coulson's new recruits – old S.H.I.E.L.D. agents and mercenaries alike – started arriving. Skye'd never forget their first encounter with Lance Hunter.

It was early morning when he, along with Idaho and Agent Hartley, first rolled through the hangar doors, and Grant – as senior specialist – and her – kinda-sorta field agent (still) in training – were their welcome wagon in Coulson and May's absence. Introductions went quickly – it turned out that Hartley and Grant had already done a mission together years ago (when he was still a rookie, and Hartley promised her a couple of nice anecdotes about that), and Idaho was more interested in where he can find the kitchen than anything else. But Hunter's gaze settled on her for a moment – maybe a moment too long –, studying her from head to toe before he extended his hand to her.

"Hello, love," he drawled in his heavy London accent as he shook her hand. "Lance Hunter, at your service."

This was the moment when Grant kind of snapped, and stepped forward.

"Grant Ward, specialist," he introduced himself, all but grabbing Hunter's hand in a handshake that seemed a bit firmer than absolutely necessary. "And she's Skye," he pointedly slipped an arms around her waist, pulling her closer (something he never did in front of strangers), "my girlfriend."

"Agent Skye," she corrected him with narrowed eyes, but didn't pull away (she was annoyed by his Neanderthal-level possessiveness, but not so much to make a scene).

"Okay," Hunter said, not missing a moment of the exchange, but acting unfazed, and maybe even a bit amused. "Pleased to meet ya. Lead the way?"

Skye would have even let the incident slip if it happened only one time – but no, Grant seemed to repeat this little performance, this overdone declaration of their relationship almost every time a new guy arrived at the base who just seemed to realize that beyond being an agent, she was a female.

But around the sixth or seventh occurrence, she figured it out – Grant was insecure. He was actually, honestly afraid that if any of the guys made a move on her she's leave him for them, so he made it abundantly clear that she was off the market. At first, she might have been a little angry about it; but after she lamented on it a little longer she came to the conclusion that is was actually kind of endearing – that no matter how amazing he was, how many demons of his past had he defeated, he was still afraid that he wasn't good enough for her (and it made her heart bleed a little for him).

So she came up with a little plan to reassure him that she was to stay.

Although they hadn't been sharing a room officially yet (she was afraid Coulson's heart couldn't bear it such a short time after the whole HYDRA deal), they spent most of their nights together, sometimes sneaking in after the other went to bed. That night she put on her sexiest lingerie (which, admittedly, wasn't that sexy – she'd been thinking about updating her collection for a while, but with being on the run she hadn't really had the chance), and slipped into his room.

He was already in bed, reading, the room only illuminated by his bedside lamp. She slipped into the room – his eyes found hers immediately –, closed the door quietly behind her, then shed her robe, letting it fall to the floor, suddenly standing in front of him in nothing but in almost-but-not-exactly matching lacy panties and bra. She saw his pupils dilate and a smirk appearing on his lips as she sauntered to him, and, with more confidence than she felt, grabbed his book, tossed it behind her, straddled him, and kissed him hard.

"Not that I'm complaining," he said a little breathlessly once they pulled apart, his hands caressing the curve of her waist, "but what did I do to deserve this?"

She went for another kiss before answering.

"Nothing in particular," she said, kissing along his jawline. "Being you." Her nose slid down the column of his neck. "I'm just showing you that you're it for me." She nipped at the juncture of his neck. "That I'm not going anywhere." She pulled his earlobe into her mouth. "So you can stop trying to intimidate all the guys." She reached down between them, palming his growing erection. "Because you have me forever," she breathed the last part into his ear.

As soon as she said that something flashed in his eyes, and the next moment he flipped them over, his lips and hands attacking her with fiery passion.

"God, woman, I love you," he said before kissing her, while simultaneously trying to push her bra down to free her breasts.

He didn't say much else that night, and from then on, he didn't try to verbally discourage other guys from even talking to Skye (although he did leave other marks on her to get his point across).


	11. I Wear the Chain I Forged in Life

**I Wear the Chain I Forged in Life…**

Ward was well aware of HYDRA's dirtiest tricks: if you can't make them comply, but still want something from them, break them. There were so many ways to do it: pain, starvation, sleep deprivation… Long, bitter torture. Nobody lasted forever – sooner or later everybody either gave up or died, but HYDRA had their methods to keep their prisoners alive for as long as they wanted.

There was no way out.

Still, he tried to approach the situation with good humor (if you can't defeat them, at least annoy them for as long as you can).

"I ask again, Mr. Ward," Whitehall said for the umpteenth time, leaning close to him, but not close enough so that he could spit on him. Damn chains. "Where may I find your old team?"

Ward let out a humorless chuckle.

"Rot in hell."

Of course Whitehall was alive; of course he had survived a bullet to the heart (monsters are hard to kill, after all); of course he had come after 33 and found them when Ward was still so weak he could barely stand on his own. Of course he had captured him, taken him back to his headquarters in the hope of making him talk; in the hope of making him confess where he'd find Skye.

Well, the joke was on him; Ward had no idea where she was.

"Mr. Ward, you'll accomplish nothing with his behavior," Whitehall said, his accent thickening in his veiled anger, making him sound like a snake. "Tell me what I want to know, and this," he gestured around his cell, which resembled a medieval dungeon, "can end."

Ward pulled at his chains just to hear them rattle.

" _I wear the chain I forged in life_ ," he said. "It's kind of ironic, don't you think?" He looked into Whitehall's eyes daringly. "I never would have thought I'd relate to old Marley's –" Whitehall backhanded him with a force that made his teeth clatter. He spit blood in front of Whitehall's shoes.

"So you won't talk," Whitehall stated, calm again.

"There's nothing to talk about."

"Good." Whitehall straightened his spine and brushed off his suit pants. "We'll what a couple more days will do to you." And with that, he left, leaving Ward in complete darkness.

Ward let himself collapse to the floor, as much as his chains let it.

There was no way out from here, not that it was news to him – all his life, he had never had a way out. But at least now he had the dark satisfaction of never giving Whitehall what he wanted.


	12. Mini Heroes

_(I know it's a little boy in the pic, but I went with my own Skyeward OC babies – I hope it's okay :) Also, the credit for Captain's name goes for ticklish-super-spy, because according to her, "Skye is the same Steve Rogers trash as Coulson" :D)_

 **Mini Heroes**

Skye was supposed to buy a few things for Ada (her second baby girl was due in three weeks, and although they still had most of Haylie's stuff from when she was a baby, they were still short on some things), but it was so cool and cute at the same time, she just couldn't leave it at the store. And when she found a matching outfit for Captain it was like a sign from above.

Now she just had to get Grant agree on the idea.

But before she could have come up with a plan for it, her husband caught that something was up.

"What's in that bag, Skye?" he asked as soon as she walked into the living room upon returning home, pointing at the shopping bag in her hand, holding her newest purchase. Skye bit into her lip. She hesitated for a moment then held out the bag for him.

"Surprise?" she asked tentatively as he took the bag, then she sat down on the couch (slowly; honestly, if this baby decided to come a little early, she wouldn't have been against it). "You said you'd take Haylie trick or treating." For the record, he really did, and he even seemed enthusiastic about it. And anyway, they had just moved to the freaking D.C. suburbs with a toddler, and, apparently, taking their kid trick or treating was what suburban families did.

Grant nodded slightly, then delved into the bag, pulling out first a tiny black overall, then a small, red wig. The corner of his mouth twitched as he held them up.

"You bought a Black Widow costume for our daughter?" he asked. She could tell from his voice that he was on the verge of breaking into a laugh, but she still just nodded timidly, caressing her belly.

"Look again; there's something else there." When he reached into the bag again, she added, "That's for Captain."

The dog in question, who until then was sleeping peacefully in front of the unlit fireplace, hearing his name raised his head, started drumming with his tail against the floorboards, the stood up and trotted over to his mistress, settling down against her legs.

Grant actually let out a chuckle as he pulled the last item from the bag – a Captain America costume designed for dogs, equipped even with a shield that doubled as a Frisbee.

"Oh, Skye…" he laughed.

"You are okay with it? I mean, I didn't go overboard, right?"

Without saying a word, Grant put down the bag and the costume, walked over to her, leaned down and kissed her.

"I love it."

Skye smiled at him.

"Great. Because I'm already all over the idea of sending pics to Coulson, and I'd hate to miss out on that."

His forehead resting against hers, he chuckled, then, after an affectionate rub to her belly, he stood up, grabbed the Black Widow costume, and started walking towards the stairs.

"Where are you going?" she called after him.

"Haylie should be up from her nap soon. I'm going to see if the costume fits her." And with that, he went upstairs.

Skye leaned back against the cushions with a wide grin on her face.

"Baby girl," she said softly, placing her hand on her belly. "Your daddy is a big dork."

As if she agreed, Ada kicked against her palm.


	13. Morning Glory

_(It's smut, shameless smut, nothing else.)_

 **Morning Glory**

He can't even imagine a sight sexier than this: Skye clad in nothing but his shirt, wrinkled after having spent the night on the floor, her hair deliciously ruffled, biting her lip and looking up at him like she knows a dirty secret (well, she most definitely does). It takes every ounce of his willpower not to ravish her right then and there.

Her tongue darts out to lick her upper lip, and he can't help but remember what she did with that tongue last night.

"Hi," she breaths. It's still kind of foreign to him – talking, making idle conversation just for the sake of letting the other hear your voice. But he likes it.

"Hi," he answers, stepping closer to her. She moves almost instinctively, rising to meet him, standing close enough to reach – still not close enough. She places her hands on his bare shoulders, pulling herself up to kiss him. It might start out chaste, lips on lips, soft caresses, but the fire soon ignites, and suddenly, it's not enough. Suddenly it's teeth nibbling and tongues exploring, and there's a moan tearing free from her throat as her hands slide down the hard planes of his chest.

When they part, desperate for air, suddenly he's not that fan of that shirt anymore – it looks great on her, of course, but he knows what's beneath it (her dark nipples even peek through the white fabric, teasing him mercilessly), and he wants that now – wants to see it, feel it, taste it.

So he reaches for the buttons, starting from the bottom, working his way up slowly, torturously slowly, just to tease her. His eyes never leave hers for a moment; he loves seeing the desire burn in her gaze, slowly consuming every rational thought. Her breaths are already coming in little, irregular pants, and he has barely touched her yet.

Finally reaching the last button, the shirt falls open, revealing her breasts to him, glorious mounds of flesh covered in soft, tan skin, the pert nipples hard, pebble-like. He flicks one of them, more teasing than tentative. She arches her head back, offering the column of her neck to him.

"Grant…" she sighs, a needy, arousal-fuelled sound. It's all he needs to hear.

He grabs her hips, and with one swift move he places her on the table (something clatters; they must have pushed something off table, but he couldn't care less), and the next moment his mouth is on her – on her neck, sucking hard to leave a mark, then down, down, his lips wrapping around one of her nipples, while his hand massages the other, neglected breast. She moans and whimpers and buries her fingers in his hair, pushing him down, down.

He'd hate to deny her anything.

He gets on his knees.

Her underwear forgotten somewhere in the bedroom, there's nothing to stand in his way as he spreads her thighs wide.

He touches her with a single finger first, just to test the waters, brushing along her lips with the pad of his fingertip, then delving deeper, pushing into her just a bit before pulling out and rubbing her clit for a second. She's already wet and ready and inviting, but he still thinks she deserves some extra attention. So he lowers his head, his tongue finding her at once – he hears her gasp, and the next moment her hand is on his head again, pushing him closer. He works on her diligently, licking and lapping and nibbling and sucking, working her up until she's on the verge of release, until the surface of the coffee left on the table starts trembling.

Then he stops, pulls away and stands up. Skye lets out a little whine, missing their connection already, but he can see in her glazed eyes that she knows that he won't leave her hanging, that the best part is yet to come. Bracing his hands on the edge of the table, he leans forward and kisses her, letting her feel herself on his lips.

When he frees himself from her – she barely lets him go – it's only for as long as he gets rid of his underwear, kicking it away, letting it fall where it does. His erection springs free, proud and achingly hard. He pumps it once, twice, relishing in the feeling, but barely being able to keep himself from just pounding into her.

He gets as close to her as he can, her nipples brushing against his chest, as he slides his member along her wetness, coating himself with her juices. As he's readying himself, her arms wound around his neck, pulling him even closer, while her mouth finds his again, taking his lower lip between her teeth, nobbling at it gently, seductively.

She gasps, throwing her head back when he finally penetrates her, sliding home into her heat in one, forceful stroke, burying himself in her completely. He gives her a moment to adjust – her walls fluttering around him –, then starts moving. Letting go of the slow buildup he pounds into her with quick, measured thrusts, her hips moving in tandem with his. Her arms still around his neck, and her legs locking around his waist, he grabs her ass and practically lifts her, helping her keep the rhythm.

The silverware in the drawers and the plates in the cupboard soon start to clatter, and even he can feel the frenzied, insistent vibrations on his skin – it feels amazing, almost otherworldly, and it takes some effort for him not to fall apart right then. His skin glistening with perspiration, urged by her pleasured cries, he quickens his pace and reaches down to rub her clit, urging her to come.

Soon her walls start to flutter, clamping on him, trying to pull him in and push him out at the same time, while her whole body freezes, her back arching and her head falling back, a silent scream etched to her lips. That moment he comes too, pleasure erupting in every cell of his body as he empties himself into her.

It takes a moment or two until the white noise in his mind calms down, and he gets perception of time and place again. He is standing by the table, Skye still wrapped around him, her head resting at the crook of his neck, her soft, sated body slumped against him, their sweaty skin sticking together. Her senses seemingly return to her sooner, because she's already peppering his shoulder with butterfly-like kisses by the time he starts drawing nonsensical patterns on the soft skin of her back under the shirt she still wears.

He could stand like this for an eternity.

Skye moves first; she pulls back a little, just enough that she can press a kiss to his mouth. Still a little breathless, her voice still laden with pleasure, she whispers against his lips, "Good morning, love."


	14. World's End

**World's End**

"So this is where you grew up… at the World's End." Skye's tone is light, teasing, and Grant can't help the chuckle that escapes his lips.

"Not exactly; but I came here a couple of times as a kid."

Their newest mission brought them to Plymouth, Massachusetts. It was an easy one, over quickly, and since they didn't expect another directive at least until midday the next day, Coulson gave them the day off. Grant was planning to spend it with her anyway, so when she said she wanted to see where he hailed from, he went with it. He didn't take her to his old neighborhood in Boston, though – it would have been too much. Instead he brought her here, to the World's End.

Just out of Hingham, the World's End was once an island during high tide, before the damming anchored it to the land permanently. Somebody once wanted to build a village on, but the only thing that got done was a couple of miles of carriage road. Today, it is nothing more than trees and meadows and rolling landscape – a hiker's paradise. A piece of Eden in the midst of civilization.

That's where he brought her.

She smiles at him.

"It's so nice," she breaths, looking out at the sea. "So peaceful."

They spent the better part of their afternoon at the World's End, walking through the old, never-really-used carriage roads, marveling at nature and each other. They only went back to town the grab some dinner, and now they are here again, this time right by the sea, lying on the shore under warm blankets.

The sun is setting now, dusk pulling a strange, muted glow all over the scenery. The waves are reflected in her eyes as she cuddles up to him, her warm, soft body pressing against his. She closes her eyes and lets her head fall on his shoulder, sighing contently.

"So beautiful…"

"Yeah," he agrees, although he guesses they are not speaking about the same thing.

The moment is simply flawless, and maybe that's why there are three little words on the tip of his tongue. And yet, he keeps quiet. Because this is supposed to be a big deal, right? Earth-shattering, life-changing. You just can't utter it just because you are so at peace and the girl of your dreams lies next to you, almost dozing on your shoulder.

But he still wants to.

His Adam's apple bobbing, he says "Skye…"

"Hm?" she murmurs, opening her eyes and looking up at him. Something glimmers in her gaze and her lips slightly part. There's an infinite moment, and then she speaks. "Gosh, I love you."

It takes him a second to comprehend what she's just said – but when he does, he starts laughing.

"What?" she asks, the corner of her mouth turning upwards.

"Nothing," he tells her before his hand comes to rest on the line of her jaw, pulling her closer gently and kissing her. "I love you too."


	15. Movie Night under the Stars

**Movie Night under the Stars**

"Tell me again – why are we here?"

Skye just smirks at him as she opens a bag of pretzels.

"Because it's romantic," she answers with twinkling eyes.

Grant just wrinkles his nose – he doesn't get what would be so romantic about sitting on the bed of an old, rented pickup truck in a run-down drive-in cinema, wearing shorts and sneakers, waiting for some mediocre horror form the sixties to start. But apparently Skye does see the magic in it, because she just hasn't stopped smiling since they left the base. (And okay, it makes his heart flutter a little. But he still doesn't get why it should be so romantic.)

"Out with that sour face!" she scolds him playfully, swapping at his arm. "It's date night!"

Okay, that does it – mentioning that they are actually on a date, because they are (apparently) dating, does bring a smile to his face.

"That's what I'm talking about!" Skye giggle, pulling the blanket she's brought over their legs. "You'll see, it'll be a fabulous night," she promises, and he's inclined to believe her.

Then, as the lights slowly fade, he starts to understand what she meant.

Just before the movie starts, all the lights in the lot are turned off, allowing the stars above them shine brilliantly; he can barely remember seeing so many stars before. And although there are dozens of other cars around them, he feels like they are alone – the skies, the stars, the movie, the night is all theirs.

Just as the screen comes to life, Skye leans against him, resting her head on his shoulder; his arm sneaks around her waist almost on its own volition. When the film starts to roll, he presses a kiss against the crown of her head.

"You know what? It already is," he whispers into her ear.

"I told you so." He doesn't see her face, but feels her smile.

(When the night is over, neither of them really knows what the movie was about. They had better stuff to do during it.)


	16. Story of a T-shirt in Four Acts

**Story of a T-Shirt in Four Acts**

I.

When he got back to the team, after months practically spent on the run, all his earthly possessions fit into a duffel bag – some weapons, a cell phone, a handful of clothes, and that was about it (and a picture of Skye; somehow he managed to hold onto that). Moving back to the Playground, this time taking a bunk, not Vault D, he hoped he'll get his old stuff back, the things he had left on the Bus, but it turned out it had been all thrown out when he was incarcerated. So his wardrobe remained to consist of two pair of jeans and a half a dozen simple black T-shirts.

At least until one night he found a parcel in front of his door.

It was crudely wrapped a sparkling gift wrapper, taped at seemingly random places, wrapped around with a red ribbon. There was even a note attached, written in Skye's familiar, looping scrawl: _"Take it as a peace offering?"_

Ripping off the paper, he found two things inside – a paperback book, titled _The Hunger Games_ (the title rang some bells; he distinctly remembered Skye mentioning it once), and another black T-shirt. Well, at least at first he thought it was a simple black T-shirt, but then he folded it out, and just couldn't help laughing. With a picture of a cat riding a horse in the most overdramatic manner, it was about the most ridiculous thing he has ever seen.

The whole package felt personal, heartfelt, and so much _Skye_ it made his heart flutter. So if she meant it as a peace offering, well, then she more than succeeded.

II.

He donned his new shirt proudly the next morning – he wanted to show Skye that he much appreciated her gift, and maybe, maybe he hoped that her seeing him in this would at least prompt a smile from her (heavens, he had missed her smile), and, at best case scenario, would lead to some lighthearted, teasing conversation between them.

But then as he got to the galley, his world shattered a little.

"Nice shirt, Ward," Trip called to him in a not at all unfriendly manner. And he had the same shirt on.

Well, not exactly the same one – his had the shape of a cat filled with a picture of a salami pizza, placed in space for some reason. But still, the mentality was the same.

"Thanks," he answered after a little pause. "Yours, too. Where'd get it?"

"Got it from Skye for my birthday," Trip answered with a wide, some might say smitten, smile on his face. "It's cool, isn't it?"

"Yeah, cool," Grant mumbled, suddenly not so interested in seeing Skye, or having breakfast, for that matter.

Suddenly, not even her gift seemed that personal.

III.

So he might have been moping a little, hiding away in the gym and hitting the sandbag until his knuckles hurt.

It was stupid, he knew – feeling kind of-almost betrayed because Skye had bought a similar T-shirt for Trip. It was not like he had a right to feel that way. Despite the last week or so, when he had earned his place back on the team, he and Skye were nowhere near where they had used to be. He had no right to feel jealous of Trip.

Damn.

What if they were together?

Sure, last time he checked – months and months ago – Trip had a thing for Simmons, but still… What if in his absence Trip and Skye got together, and that's why she bought him that silly T-shirt? (Which, of course, raised the question of why he had gotten one, but his jealousy-fueled mind refused to think about that.)

The thought of Trip and Skye made him turn and hit the wall with such a force that, despite the padding, his knuckles cracked. He hissed at the pain, pulling his hand close to his chest right away.

"That must've hurt," he heard Skye's voice from behind his back.

IV.

She walked to him casually, taking his hand into hers and gently unwrapping it. He let her without saying a word.

"I don't think it's broken," she said after a quick examination, "but you still should put some ice on it. Come on, I'll walk you to the kitchen." She smiled at him, and he could have sworn she winked. "And on the way you could tell why are you so mad at that poor wall."

The corner of Grant's mouth twitched as he, a little shamefully, followed her out of the gym.

"It's just…" he sighed. "Is there… Is there anything between you and Trip?"

Skye stopped in her tracks.

"Why would you…?" Then she facepalmed herself. "The cat shirt."

"Yeah," he sighed.

"Damn, Robot," she breathed, seemingly halfway between being amused and annoyed. "Yes, there's something between me and Trip," she said, looking him square in the eye. "He's like a big brother to me. He looks out for me, and I love him for it – as a brother. And you are important to me, too." She reached for his uninjured hand and gently squeezed it. "I meant what I wrote – the gift was a peace offering, because I want us to work ourselves back to the point where we were before this whole shebang started. You know, opening up to each other and then making out at the most unfortunate times?"

A hopeful little smile appeared on his face.

"You really mean that?"

He could have sworn she blushed.

"Yeah. You have a way of making me feel like crazy. And… I'd like to explore what we could be – you know, when the two of us becomes "us"."

"I'd like that too."

"Great. Now that we have discussed it, let's get some ice for your hand." And with that, she started walking again, and he followed her, but after a moment she stopped, and turned towards him again. "But one thing: please, don't read too much into a T-shirt. I mean, at least not until it's on me and I'm pulling it off in front of you."


	17. Picture Perfect

**Picture Perfect**

Skye once roped him into going to the mall with her.

It started off as a silly bet between them during one early morning training – he told her she could ask him something, _anything_ , if she did ten pull-ups within a minute. He only half-believed that she could do it, but she did, within forty-eight seconds. She was unbelievably pleased with herself, doing a little victory dance, before she started to complain about how her arms hurt, while he was really proud of her.

He thought she would ask something like forgoing a training session. Or demand that their morning sessions started an hour later. He even imagined her asking him to steal Fitz's candy for her.

In the end, she only asked him to take her to a mall – she said that with her S.H.I.E.L.D. paycheck, she finally had enough money not to shop at a second hand store, and she wanted to take advantage of that. (He would have taken her even if she only asked; but under the pretense of the lost bet he could still pretend that she was nothing else to him just his rookie.)

They had some down time near a bigger city three days later, and that was when he took her. (She wore a dress; she wore a dress that ended halfway down her thighs, and it was driving him crazy.) Most of the day was a simple affair – she chose a few not too high-end stores she wanted to visit, and he followed her as she browsed through the racks and racks of clothes. She modelled a few for him, and asked about his opinion (she didn't try on dresses, though, but jeans and pants and simple shirts in darker tones than he was used to, clothes that were mostly sensible for an agent).

(At one point he broke, and started recommending her brighter, lighter, happier pieces. She smiled at him in a funny way – some of the clothes he chose must have been ridiculous –, but she tried on, and even bought a few.)

Nearing the end of the afternoon, they were on their way back to the parking lot, with shopping bags in their hands, when they passed a photo booth. Skye's eyes started sparkling the moment she saw it. She hooked her arm into his elbow and started pulling him towards it.

"Hey!" he protested, but his smirk betrayed how half-hearted this protest was.

"C'mon!" Skye urged him, already stepping into the booth. "We so need a pic of this day." Letting the bags fall to the floor at her feet, she sat down, and started to set up the machine. "Do some silly faces! Can you do some silly faces?"

The first flash came when he was still sitting down, looking towards the entryway, an amused smile on his face. By the second, he was already looking towards the camera. For the third pic, he managed to pull off some kind of cross-eyed silliness for her. But the fourth one…

On the fourth one, she is sticking her tongue out towards the camera, while he is looking down at her, half-profile towards the lenses, a look of pure adoration on his face. A kind of affection not even a blind man could miss.

So of course Skye noticed it as well.

"Well, look at that," she said smiling once the machine printed their pictures. She looked up at him, her dark eyes huge. "Maybe you should have that last one. I'll cut it off for you once we get back to the Bus."

And she did. She put the first three pictures on the wall of her bunk, but gave the fourth one to him. He refused to part with it ever since.

(It's his only picture of her.)


	18. I'll Write You a Tragedy

**I'll Write You a Tragedy**

He once jokingly told her that with her driving style, she wouldn't last five minutes in a car chase.

And yet, now it's because of him that they crashed.

He was so sure of what he was doing – it wasn't his first car chase by far, and it wasn't even the first time he was chased. Hell, he even managed to lose their tail, making them ride off the cliff with a sharp twist of the steering wheel.

But he miscalculated the turn – miscalculated it bad, causing their car to turn over and over and over, before the rear smashed against the cliff side next the road, stopping the vehicle (he heard Skye's scream in his ear minutes after the crash).

Miraculously, he was still in one piece – a little banged up, yes, and with blood dripping down his forehead, but he could move everything and nothing seemed to be broken.

It took him a minute to get his senses working again, but then his instincts and all the drills kicked in – he freed himself of the safety belt and crawled out of the car, as quickly as he could, then scrambled over to the other side to help Skye out.

Only he couldn't

Her door was mashed in, not even budging as he tried to open it, and she was stuck, trapped by the debris, the sharp shards of metal. And she looked… bad. Barely hanging on.

Panic rising in his chest, feeling like he couldn't breathe, he fell to his knees by her door.

"Skye," he breathed, his voice barely audible.

Skye's lips, painted red by her blood, trembled as she looked into his eyes.

"I'm scared, Grant."

Grant swallowed, blinking back tears. Scrambling, he reached into the car, squeezing her hand. It was cold.

"Shh, it's okay, everything'll be okay," he told her, although even he could not believe his own words. "Coulson must know by now what happened, help is on its way, just hang on, sweetheart."

She gave him a barely visible nod before her eyes fluttered closed.

"Okay…"

"Don't go sleep on me, do you hear me?" His voice sounded frantic, panicked even to his own ears. "You have to stay awake. You have to… Damn it, Skye, the help'll be here in a minute, you have to stay with me, do you hear it, rookie? It's an order!"

"Rookie…" she mumbled, her voice weak. "You haven't called me that in a long time. I kind of missed it"

"I'll start calling you that again, I won't even call you anything else if that's what you want," he promised, his fingers pushing down on her wrist, feeling her pulse. It was getting weaker and weaker. "Just stay with me," he begged, but he knew she won't.

She was far too gone.

* * *

 **A/N:** Attention citizens of the AOS fandom – founded by ticklish-super-spy and myself, as of today a new, hate-free, fluff-packed blog has opened for all you happy headcanon needs. Please, find it on Tumblr, under the URL agentsofluff.


	19. Let me out in the Rain

_This one ties in with (De)Classified Files ch. 2: As the Rain Falls_

 **Let me out in the Rain**

He was out on a mission whole night and well into the morning, so he honestly doesn't care that it's freaking three p.m., he wants to sleep. He earned it.

So it goes without saying that he is not so happy when his mattress dips at his waist, pulling him out of sleep. He is not happy at all.

"What?" he mumbles into his pillow.

"It's raining," Skye says. "Well, it's more of a drizzle."

"Great. In what way does it concern me?"

"You promised."

"What?"

"That the next time it rained you'd take me out on walk. Well, now it's raining." He grunts, trying to pull the covers over his head. "You promised."

Damn, he did. He remembers it now. Last week, they were driving home in the rainstorm, and he wanted him to stop so she could feel the rain. He told her no, but promised her they'd take a walk in the rain the next time the weather was mild enough that they didn't have to fear pneumonia.

Damn.

"I know." Pushing the covers down, he starts getting up. "Give me five minutes to get dressed, okay?"

For a second there's a stunned smile on Skye's face, as if she didn't really think he'd agree to it. But then she grins and quickly leans in, pressing a tiny kiss against the corner of his mouth.

"Okay," she says, then stands up. "I'll wait for you in the lounge."

* * *

Well, he wouldn't exactly call it a drizzle – it's heavier than that, and they are drenched within a minute. But at least Skye seems to be enjoying herself.

She is skipping around, singing, dancing in the rain to a tune only she can hear. Her hair wild, wet, plastered to her neck and back, her white sundress almost transparent, and she looks enticing, alluring – calling to him. He doesn't long for sleep now. The heavy raindrops and the raw, joyful energy radiating from Skye have woken him up.

He smiles with her, following her wherever she goes.

And when she twists around, her wet skirt lapping around her knees, he catches her – his arms encircling her waist, he pulls her close, until their chests are flushed together. They gaze into each other's eyes intensely for a moment before he dips her, dips her deep, almost deep enough for the tips of her hair reach the ground. She raises one of her legs to balance herself, and he grabs it just under the knee, hiking it around his waist, anchoring her to him, while he leans in, his mouth finding the center of her chest, so he can feels her heartbeat on his lips.

When he pulls her up again, she is grinning. The rain slowly stopping, she puts her arms around his neck and pulls him close, and, raising herself on the tip of her toes, she whispers into his ear, her voice breathy with suppressed laughter, "I told you it'd be fun."


	20. Warm Me up

**A/N:** Direct continuation of yesterday's drabble.

* * *

 **Warm Me up**

The rain started falling in earnest soon after that, with lightning cracking in the distance, forcing them inside. They were a drenched, dripping, giggling mess, too enamored by each other to care if anybody saw them.

Grant knew that the first thing on their to-do list should be getting out of their wet clothes and dry their hair, but somehow both of them ended up in his room, stealing kisses all the way. Not that he minded it much.

"You should put on some dry clothes," he still told her reluctantly between kisses once they stepped into his room, knowing that it might as well mean her leaving him. Possibly for the remainder part of the afternoon. And maybe he wouldn't even see her until tomorrow.

But she didn't move an inch.

"Well, then give me something," she smiled against his lips.

Shaking his head at her cheekiness, he let go of her and stepped to the wardrobe, picking out a pair of old sweatpants, a faded hoodie (he chose one he wouldn't miss – he had a feeling he wasn't going to get it back), and a clean towel, so she could wrap her hair in it.

By the time he turned back towards her, she had already peeled of her dress, and was standing in front of him in her underwear.

"What?" she smirked. "You are looking at me like you haven't seen it before," she gestured at her body. The corner of his mouth twitched just as a lightning lashed through the sky outside.

"True. But it doesn't mean I have gotten bored with the view."

"Good answer, Casanova," she winked at him as took the clothes from him.

Grant, too, pulled off his wet shirt and jeans, and put on some sweats and a Henley. By the time he was done, Skye'd dressed up as well – his clothes were way too big on her; the legs of the pants swallowed up her feet and she had to tie it tight around her waist so it wouldn't fall off, while the hem of the hoodie was almost at her mid-thigh, and she had to roll back the sleeves. With the towel styled like a turban on the top of her head, she looked absolutely adorable.

Grant stepped closer to her, wrapping his arms around her; she all but melted into the embrace. Their former urgency and playfulness was gone, replaced by some warm longing for each other. With Skye's hands rubbing comforting circles on his back, he asked "What do you want to do now?"

"Hm…" She lay her head on his chest. "Cuddle?"

He had absolutely no problem with that. And anyway, exhaustion was starting to catch up with him again.

Skye still clinging to him, he started moving towards the bed, pulling her with him almost like a dead weight – but only until she pulled herself up and wrapped her legs around his waist, letting him to carry her. This way, he managed to get her to the bed easily, then sat down and leaned against the pillows, helping her get comfortable.

"Is it okay?" he asked as she cuddled up to him, her body already going lax, her breathing evening out.

"Uh-hm," she replied, nuzzling her nose against the skin of his neck. "You make a good pillow."

He chuckled at that, but even with his chest rocking her, she didn't say a thing – she was already asleep.

With her warm, safe and comfortable, Grant closed his eyes as well.


	21. Let's Take a Look

**Let's Take a Look**

Skye was biting her nails – a surefire sign, Grant had learned, that she was anxious. Really, "I'm about to burst" kind of anxious. So he took her hand, gently pulled it away from her mouth, brought it to his lips, and pressed a kiss against the back of her hand, trying to calm her down.

"Don't worry," he told her, squeezing her hand as he lay it on his thigh. "I'm sure everything is alright."

She turned towards him, her eyes wide; he could have sworn she was ready to burst into tears.

"Then why do I feel like something's up?"

He didn't answer her, at least not with words – he simply let out a sigh and squeezed her hand again.

They were sitting in the waiting room of that OB/GYN May recommended, waiting for their first prenatal appointment. He still found it a little unbelievable – they were having a baby. There were no outward signs yet, no bump or anything, and maybe that's why he was having a hard time grasping the idea of it, even with the positive pregnancy test tucked away in the desk drawer at home, with Jemma's confirmation, and the bouts of morning sickness occasionally attacking Skye in the last week or so. There was absolutely no doubt about it: there was a baby growing is Skye's belly, about seven weeks along, if they counted right.

"Skye Ward?" a perky little nurse with a clipboard in her hands stepped over to them. When Skye nodded at her, confirming that she was looking for her, she continued, "The doctor's waiting for you. Please, follow me."

Not letting go of his hand, Skye stood up, pulling him with her, and Grant was just about to stand up as well and follow her when the nurse turned back and stopped him.

"Maybe you should stay here, sir, for a while longer. I'll come for you when it's time for the ultrasound," she promised.

Grant looked at Skye, wanting to know her opinion – because, let's be honest, he couldn't have cared less for the nurse; if Skye wanted him to go with her, he'd go whether the nurse wanted it or not. But Skye only smiled softly and gave him a little nod.

"I'm a big girl, really," she said, subconsciously putting her hand on her lower stomach.

"Alright," he agreed, then bent down a little and kissed her forehead. "I'll be waiting outside."

He watched her as the nurse led her away, down the hallway into the examination room. With a heavy sigh, he sat back down, resting his elbows on his knees and linking his fingers together.

Well, at least it was a nice place, he thought, looking around. Fancy without being presumptuous, and kind of warm, inviting – he could imagine the doctor running this practice living up to May's expectations. Even the magazines on the coffee table seemed to be fresh issues, not old copies that had been forgotten there years ago. He picked one up and opened it, intending to read it – of course, it was full of pregnancy and baby care-related articles, stuff he knew he should familiarize himself with, and he even started reading one of them, but he just didn't have the patience for it right then. So he put the magazine down, leaned back in his seat, let out a heavy breath, and spent the remainder part of the wait with frequently glancing at the clock on the wall.

It was a good twenty minutes later when the nurse returned, beckoning him to follow her. He didn't need to be told twice.

Inside the examination room, Skye was sitting on the table, wearing a light pink hospital gown, her legs covered with a sheet, and looking a bit more relaxed than she had been back in the waiting room. Her doctor, a polished woman in her mid-fifties with dark, chin-length hair, was sitting facing her, but stood as soon as Grant walked into the room. She shook his hand, introduced herself, then told him to pull up a chair and take a seat by the examination table.

"To ease some of the anxieties," she started, stealing a playfully pointed glance at Skye, "we are still waiting for the results of the blood test, but so far everything looks just great. Now," she clapped her hands together, "let's move to the ultrasound! Skye, if you'd lean back, please."

Skye did as she was asked, laying down and putting her legs in the stirrups.

"We are going to do a transvaginal ultrasound today," the doctor explained as she set up the machine. "There won't be anything too exciting to see yet, but if everything goes the way we want it – and why should it go any other way? –, I can promise you some heartbeat. Are you ready?"

Almost instinctively reaching for the other's hand, Skye and Grant looked at each other and nodded.

"Yeah, let's do it," Skye confirmed.

The doctor flashed them a smile, then started the exam – which, Grant had to admit, looked a bit scary, but Skye didn't even flinch. The monitor facing her, the doctor readjusted something on the machine, and the next moment some quick, whooping noise filled the room. He might have actually teared up a little.

"Just like a promised: a heartbe…" The doctor stopped mid-sentence, her eyebrows pulling together. "Huh… Look at that." She leaned a bit closer to the monitor, adjusting some things again.

Skye's grip tightened on his hand.

"Something's wrong?" Skye asked, her voice wavering.

"No, not at all," the doctor answered leaning back, a small smile playing on her lips. "But you should see this." And with that she turned the monitor towards them.

Grant had a very good idea of what he was seeing on the still picture, and he even opened his mouth to breathe it out, but then decided to remain silent, not to jinx it. But based upon Skye's wide-eyed expression, she'd come to the same conclusion.

The doctor picked up a pen, and with it, she pointed at a gray mass on the black background. "That's a baby," she said, then moving the pen, she pointed at another mass. "And that's another. Twins," she clarified with an earnest smile. "And both seem to be thriving, so I think congratulations are in order."

That's how long Grant managed to keep it together.

Somehow laughing and crying at the same time, he stood, and, not even caring about their audience, he kissed Skye passionately.

"Twins…" he whispered once they parted, foreheads still touching, brushing her hair away from her forehead. "Wow."

"Yeah, wow," she chuckled, but then seemed to sober up a little. "But see? I told you something was up."

* * *

 **A/N:** I actually found the blog where the prompt picture was from – they ended up being identical girls :)


	22. Before Hell Breaks Loose

**Before Hell Breaks Loose**

Grant wishes he had a camera with him right now, so he could preserve this exact moment for eternity: Skye in a sundress, her face make up-less, hair tussled, uncombed, her hand resting on her swollen belly, laughing at him, her whole being the embodiment of joy. He just can't stop the little, smitten smile that's forming on his face.

This is one of their last days of peace and calmness before the twins arrive (sometimes he still has a hard time believing it, even though it has been nearly seven months since he first saw the two dots on the screen). Skye's doctor made it clear that if she won't go into labor before she hits thirty-eight weeks, she's going to induce her, for the sake of the babies. That deadline is in four days, and although it seems like they have tried every old wives' tale that's supposed to start labor, their girls still remain warm and cozy in Skye's belly.

So they thought they'd have one last family get-together before hell breaks loose, a kind of unofficial baby shower – as they somehow skipped having a real one –, while secretly hoping that the excitement of the day will lure the babies out. So right now the two of them is in the garage with Trip and Mack, rummaging through all the stuff the previous tenants left there (Grant's been meaning to clean out the garage for a couple of weeks now, but he's been too preoccupied with preparing the nursery), because Skye swears she saw a portable grill there when they moved in three months ago. Of course it's not there, although they do find a bunch of other stuff Grant has no idea how could have gotten there – but at least it's making Skye laugh, so he's not complaining.

With the idea of grilling being scrapped, Coulson soon takes over the kitchen, claiming that he'll put something together quickly, and taking Jemma, Fitz, and surprisingly Lance to help him. And really, soon enough there is some pleasant aroma drifting from the kitchen, while he and Skye sit with their other guests on the back porch, swapping old anecdotes and laughing.

Skye's more carefree and relaxed than he's seen her in weeks; she's been getting more and more uncomfortable as her pregnancy progressed, barely able to wait until she could actually meet their daughters, not to mention how much worried she's been getting about the birth itself – she is afraid that because of the twins she'll end up having to have a C-section, something that, having been opened up before, she is desperate to avoid. But right now, as she leans against his side, one hand absent-mindedly caressing her bump, laughing at one of Trip's stories, it seems like she has been completely freed of her fears. Filled to the brink with love for her, he pulls her closer and presses a kiss against the crown of her head.

They eat on the porch, sitting on mismatched chairs by two tables pushed together, in the late afternoon sunlight. Their meal is simple but delicious, earning Coulson a round of teasing applause and some jokes about that he should just give up his position as the director of S.H.I.E.L.D., and open a restaurant.

Their guests stay until sundown, helping them clean things up – well, everybody telling Skye to stay put while they tidy up – before leaving (the biggest mess that has to be taken care of is the chair Trip and Lance somehow managed to break, not that Grant wasn't expecting some incident of this nature). After Jemma hugged Skye goodbye one last time, and making her promise for what feels like the tenth time that night that she'll take a good care of herself, they are left alone.

Almost as soon as the front door closes, Skye steps to him, wraps her arms around his waist, and pulls him as close as her expanded stomach will let her, while nuzzling her face against his neck.

"Thank you," she whispers, her breathe tickling his skin. "This day was perfect."

Sliding his finger under her chin and lifting her face so she'll look into his eyes, he kisses her.

"You are perfect," he tells him when the kiss ends.

"And you are corny," she chuckles.

"I won't argue with that," is his only answer before he kisses her again.

(Their daughters are safely delivered by the next morning.)

* * *

 **A/N:** Hi guys! Two things: one, I'm having my very last exam in my BA studies on Wednesday, and to prepare for it, I'll take a couple of days off from writing. This means that there won't be any updates for this story on Monday and Tuesday, and possible Wednesday as well (this one depends on how tired I'll be after the exam). Two, somebody has told me that they'd like to send me a picture prompt, but can't since they don't have a Tumblr – if it's the case for you as well, do not despair! You don't need to have an account yourself to submit stuff to me. The system only asks for a name and an e-mail address, so you can submit prompts without getting an account. As a reminder: my URL is orlissa. All the best, and thank you for your understanding! :)


	23. Graveyard Shift

**Graveyard Shift**

Ward generally likes working for S.H.I.E.L.D., regardless of his mission – but there is one thing he just can't stand: monitoring. Literal monitoring, where he has nothing else to do than sit in front of a monitor for hours, keeping an eye on the movements of other agents in an operation he is, technically, not part of.

And that's what he is stuck with right now.

It's all due a stupid, sprained ankle, a slight limp, and a totally manageable pain, which, in Coulson's book, renders him unfit for this mission. The mission that has May and Coulson, and three other level seven agents, who have been completely radio silent for six hour now – all according to protocol –, waiting for the moment when they can act. While he observes the whole thing – the whole nothing – from the Bus's command center, sitting in front of the monitor.

It's three a.m., he is bored, tired, and sick of this whole thing.

FitzSimmons went to bed hours ago, but Skye's still up – she is such a night owl when she has the opportunity to be, and for the last two or three hours his only entertainment have been watching her from the corner of his eye. She mostly keeps her distance, not bothering him, but he still sees her moving around – preparing some midnight snack in the galley, sitting on the couch, alternating between her laptop and tablet, then switching to a glossy magazine, and then returning to the galley for some juice. (He half-thinks that she's still up to keep an eye on him, to show solidarity, but he doesn't exactly let the thought fully form in his mind).

Then at one point she just gives up leaving him alone, and waltzes into the command center.

"Any news?" she asks, chewing on a Twizzlers.

He simply shakes his head. "Nothing. Complete radio silence. But then we didn't exactly expect them get the mark in sight until morning."

She just hums noncommittaly while slowly circling the table. He kind of expects her to say something else, something silly, something unexpected, but she remains silent.

But then the next moment she starts swaying her hips, her arms raised, dancing to some music only she can hear, but moving like she was in some nightclub.

He tries to act unamused, he really does. He sighs audibly, shakes his head and rolls his eyes, turning back towards the monitor. But she's still doing it, getting closer and closer to him, her hips almost bumping into his side. When she reaches down with both hands and ruffles his hair a chuckle finally breaks out of him.

"Why are you doing this?" he asks, finally allowing himself a smile.

Skye shrugs.

"Because this, exactly. You frankly looked like somebody who was about to fall asleep. Now you have some more life in you. You are welcome," she winks at him, actually winks at him, then turns to leave. "Now, I'll leave you to your super secret, super boring op."

He barely waits a beat, and then "Skye?" he calls after her; she stops in an instant, looking at him. "You can stay if you want. I wouldn't mind the company."

She smiles wide, flashing a little teeth.

"Cool," she says, walking back to the command center and pulling up a chair next to him. "What d'you have in mind? To pass time, you know. I spy? Funny anecdotes? Oh, I know! Never Have I Ever! But we'll need some booze for that…"

Grant just can't wipe off the grin from his face – maybe this night won't be that long after all.


	24. Nightmares

**Nightmares**

He wakes up practically the moment his door opens, but doesn't move an inch; he is well aware that there is only one person who would come into his room in the middle of the night without even knocking. His eyes still closed, he listens as she crosses the room to his bed, feels the mattress dip as she climbs in (he lets out a little groan as she crawls over him, kneeing him in the stomach), then settles between him and the wall, curling into his side. Then, only then, he lets out a sigh.

"Everything's alright?"

"Stupid Trip and his stupid Second World War movies," Skye mumbles, burying her face in his neck.

Oh yeah – they watched some kind generic WWII spy movie that night, chosen by Trip, who, in spite of not wanting special treatment because of his grandfather, is a big WWII nerd. Truth to be told, Grant didn't really paid attention to the film; he just made himself comfortable in the corner of the couch, having Skye lean against him, reading his book, while the movie went on in the background.

"Care to elaborate?"

Skye let out a little, distressed noise.

"I had a nightmare," she confessed, prompting him to take her hand and press a kiss against the crown of her head, encouraging her to go on. "I was this big femme fatale forties spy-lady, y'know, like Peggy Carter was, and I was on this mission in some kind of movie theatre – I had to get some intel or kill somebody, I don't even remember –, and I went up to the projector room, and then…" her voice breaks, and he swears he can feel tears against his skin. "I heard somebody from behind me and turned around, gun in hand, and… It was Quinn. And I fired, and I guess I hit him, but he fired, too, and he was quicker than me, and…" She full on sobs now. "And it hurt so much, and I was so scared, and you weren't there, and…"

"Shhh…" he hushes her, wrapping his arms around her and practically pulling her on top of him, caressing her hair, the horrors of her nightmare hitting him hard, too. That day in Italy still haunts him, too. "It's okay, it was just a dream. You're safe now," he murmurs into her ear.

"I know, but…"

"No buts," he cuts in. The _I'll protect you_ is implied, but unsaid. He kisses the top of her head once again, then tucks her under his chin. He already knows the answer, and it's not like he would let her leave now, but he still asks, "Do you want to stay for the night?"

Skye doesn't say a word, just nods, tightening her arms around him.

"Okay." He moves them into a more comfortable position. "Sleep now, sweetheart."

In his calming embrace Skye actually falls asleep pretty fast; Grant watches her in the near-complete darkness for a long time, caressing her back as she sleeps. He might not have been able to always protect her in the past, but he won't make any mistakes in the future. And two things are sure: one, the next time he sees Quinn, he's going to kill him, and two, he is going to have a talk with Trip about movies he should and shouldn't watch with his girlfriend first thing in the morning.

* * *

 **A/N:** This drabble marks the start of my mini-hiatus. Don't worry, I'll be back on either Wednesday or Thursday. Until then, take care! :)


	25. Don't Scare Me

**Don't Scare Me**

The mission goes well until… Until it is not.

It was supposed to be a routine op, simple intel gathering – get Skye into the garden party hosted by a businessman with suspected HYDRA ties, let her do her thing, sweet talk her way into the building, then hack the system and transfer the contents of his hardware to their server. Ward was just supposed to be there as back up, as a plan B if things went south, but to be honest, going through the guy's security plans three times before the mission, he wasn't expecting any problems. So yes, he expected smooth sailing.

And it's not their guy who turns out to be a problem in the end.

Who would have thought that the mansion would be attacked at the same time with their mission?

It all happens fast and unexpected. First there's a high pitched noise in his comm that forces him to take the receiver out; a moment later it is over, and he just knows that the connection is lost. Whoever is behind the attack, he was smart enough to disable all communications before striking.

The next moment the gunfire starts.

Panic rises in his chest in an instant – Skye's still inside, her communications down, all alone. It forces him out of hiding, having him run into the midst of action, whether it is wise or not. He doesn't care if it's wise or not – all he cares about is finding Skye.

What was a party only five minutes ago is a mess now. There are masked mercenaries dressed in black running amongst the well-dressed guests, grabbing them and taking their valuables (could it all be a simple robbery, the mercs going just for the money?). There are already a few bodies on the ground, some wounded, some dead. He has no time to stop to check.

He has no time for anybody until he finds her.

He takes down a few attackers on his way to find her – knocks out some, breaks the neck of one and turns his own weapon on another. They are not as trained as they should be, which makes his suspicion that they are not from HYDRA stronger and stronger. Although it's not definitely a good thing – the less trained you are the more likely you'll miss your target.

He keeps looking around himself and shouting her name as he goes, and for the longest time, there's no answer, not even a flash of the lavender dress she's wearing, and with every passing minute his chest feels tighter.

It can't be…

But then, "Grant!"

He turns right away – and there she is, twenty feet from him, on the edge of the fight, but with an unconscious merc at her feet.

He wastes no time running to her.

She's lost her shoes, her hair's a mess and there's blood on her dress, but she is standing upright, seemingly unharmed (but he knows how adrenalin works – she still could be hurt). His hands reach out for her, grabbing her upper arm, almost as if he has to reassure himself that she's really there, that she's not just a mirage.

"Are you hurt?" he asks, his gaze flickering to her dress. Skye just shakes her head.

"It's not my blood," she reassures him, but at the same time, she's already turning away from him. "The way's clear now into the house. We should–"

"No," he tells her quickly. "We are getting out of here." His tone leaves no place for argument, and yet she tries.

"But the intel–"

"It's not important!" He yanks her so she'll look into his eyes (he realizes that he is being too forceful with her, but right now he is too focused on the task at hand – on getting her out of here – to care about it). "It's not important," he repeats, this time a bit softer.

There must be something in the way he looks at her, because there's a beat of stillness, and then she gives him a nod and lets him lead her away, away from the fighting, away from the mansion, away from their mission.

It's not until their quinjet is in the air, location locked, autopilot on, HQ notified of the failed mission, when Ward is able to shake off the shock and the agent mask, and be simply just Grant. But then the first thing he does is stepping to Skye, embracing her with her head tucked under his chin, pulling her close. He lets out a relieved sigh as her hands rest on his back.

"Don't ever scare me like that again."


	26. May I?

**May I?**

"You are never going to make a move, right?"

Her question is so sudden and completely out of context – they are in the cargo bay, having their usual morning workout, and he was just showing her how to use an opponent's weight against him – that it has him take a step back, looking at her with wide eyes.

He could pretend that he doesn't understand; that he takes it as an ill-timed attempt for a joke. He could scowl and tell her to focus on the task and hand. He could definitely be Agent Grant Ward now, all distant and unapproachable.

He could – but it would be pointless.

Despite her recurring nickname for him, he's not a robot, and he knows exactly what's been going on between them. He knows that their relationship have been evolving – going from irritated comments to witty flirting. There have been teasing smiles and longer-than-necessary touches and longing gazes that held more meaning than thousands and thousands words could.

And yet, nothing happened. Nothing of real significance.

Mostly because of him.

Solely because of him.

Because starting a relationship with his rookie would be highly unprofessional, unwise and downright stupid. And he doesn't do stupid. (No matter how much he wants to.)

"Excuse me?" he says simply after a way too long pause, his voice significantly higher than he'd like it to be.

Skye crosses her arms in front of her chest in a gesture he knows she intends to be haughty, but in fact is a defense mechanism.

"I mean you're never going to… I don't know. Kiss me or something."

(Damn, he wants to kiss her so bad. He wants to know if her lips are as soft as they look, and whether her hair feels like liquid silk beneath his finger, and whether her body would fit his as well as he's imagined.)

Instead of answering, he simply swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing.

Skye must feel like she's having the upper hand, because she smiles (grins) and licks her upper lip.

"I bet you couldn't even kiss me – I mean, your programming must be lacking this particular app."

This – her fake-confident grin, the twitch of her mouth, the slight rise of her eyebrow, the playful glint in her eye and the teasing tone of her voice –breaks him. He's not proud of it, but he can feel the heat rise to his cheeks.

"I could kiss you! I could. I mean, I'd like to. I – may I? We me? I mean may we? Wait, what?" The last question is addressed rather to himself than to her.

For a moment, Skye just stands there, wide-eyed, apparently completely stunned. It's clear as the day that she didn't expect this kind of outburst.

And then she starts laughing – doubling over, tears flowing down her cheeks-laughing. Even Grant can't help but smile at the situation.

It takes a good minutes for her to calms down, until she tames her rolling laughter into a little chuckle. But when she does, she steps closer to him and takes one of his hands in hers.

"You may," she tells him, looking into his eyes. "Kiss me, I mean."

And that's exactly what he does.


	27. Gentle Giant

**Gentle Giant**

Leave it to Grant Ward to bring home the biggest, scariest, and, incidentally, friendliest and gentlest dog possible.

This doesn't mean that Skye's heart didn't stop for a moment when one day she opened the front door and came face to face with the largest dog – a huge, black Great Dane that standing on its hind legs was easily a head taller than her – she has ever seen. (Okay, so she might have taken a step back and let out a little shriek, but c'mon, who wouldn't have?)

Of course it soon turned out that she didn't need to be afraid, as Hector – whose original owner was a victim in a case involving a volatile gifted, so they _just had to take him in_ (damn Grant and damn the fact that sometimes he was a bigger puppy than Hector) – was the textbook case of a gentle giant. And they soon had a countless anecdotes – and photos and videos as evidence – to prove it.

Hector is afraid of thunder; whenever there's a storm raging on during the night, he'll whine in front of the bedroom door until he's let in, then climbs into the bed, preferably under the covers, until only his nose can be seen (which is a bit of a problem, as even a king sized bed is kind of small for two people and a Great Dane).

Hector is infinitely patient. Grant once had to drag the dog into the shower after their daughters painted all over him, and his fur was completely covered in pink and neon green splotches. And he just simple let them, without letting out a single whine.

Hector is afraid of strangers. The first time Fitz came over after Grant brought Hector home, the dog hid behind the sofa and refused to come out until Fitz left. Hector, the one hundred and twenty pound Great Dane was terrified of the tiny engineer.

Hector loves the kids. When they brought their first daughter home, Hector'd sit by the bassinet for hours, wiggling his tail whenever the baby moved. And even later on, he'd always have an eye kept on the girls.

Hector loves to hug people. Because once he knows you, he usually loves you, and he likes to show it. And he shows it by hugging you – hugging meaning that he stands on his hind legs and puts his front paws on your shoulder, panting in your face. Sometimes he does this completely unexpectedly, running to you first with full speed (he wants managed to topple Jemma).

Hector is completely aware when he is doing stuff he shouldn't, and if he's caught, he has perfected the act of feeling guilty. If somebody catches him on the act of sitting on the couch (which he is not allowed to), stealing food from the table (which he is definitely not allowed to), or sniffing around looking for his treats (which are hidden for a reason), he'll sulk away, and look at the person with huge puppy eyes for as long as it is needed for his misbehavior to be forgotten.

So okay, Skye might not have been Hector's biggest fan when they first met – but now she wouldn't part from her gentle giant for anything.


	28. Crossroads of Destiny

Submitted by klutzygirl – who sent me a rather detailed prompt, over which we had a good discussion, which I have lost ever since (I know…). Still, I mostly remember what we talked about, but still tweaked around with it a bit, and in the end, it turned out to be this fic: a Nothing Personal AU where Coulson doesn't get to the Bus in time to get Skye out, and Grant ends up taking her to Cuba to Garrett.

* * *

 **Crossroads of Destiny**

Leading Skye down the stairs to John's basement headquarters in Cuba Grant just can't shake the feeling off that he's making a big mistake – and Skye's hateful gaze is just strengthening this feeling. But at the same time a voice – one that eerily reminds him of John's – keeps telling him that this is exactly what he is ought to do. John's life is priority; everything else, even Skye, comes second.

But after that? What happens after they have the serum? He has no idea – curing John would end his fifteen year long quest. Half a life. He has no clue where to go, what to do after that. (But two things are sure: John will be there with him, and he'll keep looking out for Skye, even if it's the last thing she wants right now.)

(He still wants to believe that one day she'll understand.)

Reaching the bottom of the stairs and walking into the part of the basement that John has made his personal nook, they come face to face with the man himself almost immediately – he is sitting in the barber's chairs as if it was a throne and he a king, looking smugly over his realm. When he sees Skye, there's a spark in his eyes that's almost sinister.

"Great job, son," he tells Grant in a slow voice, the corners of his mouth pulling into a grin. "I assume the hard drive is already with Raina?" Grant gives him a curt nod. "Wonderful! And good thinking taking the girl with you," he adds, standing up from his chair.

Grant involuntarily straightens his spine; he has thought it all out, what he'll say, how he'll justify bringing Skye here instead of ditching her – or worse yet, killing her – after she decrypted the hard drive. She's good, he has planned to say, good enough that they can assume there are other barriers on the drive, other levels of protection. They might still need her to break some of these. He is ready to argue for it, but then John continues, saying something that makes Grant's heart stop for a moment.

"Strucker will be very happy to have her."

"Strucker?" Grant asks, stepping away from Skye, trying not to sound too taken aback, too protective. "Why would…?"

John simply shrugs, walking casually towards him and Skye; Grant instinctively moves in a way that he remains between them.

"He's been doing some experiments – trying to give people powers. I hear he's even had some success. And to get a girl with the GH serum in her blood… He'll have a field day with her." He stops and tilts his head to the side looking at Skye with a strange expression. "Of course, Whitehall might outbid him."

Skye, who's been stubbornly silent until now, lets out a string of curses – Grant has to agree with her –, while he takes a step towards John, raising his hand in a placating gesture.

"But it wasn't the plan," he says, trying to sound calm, reasonable. "It was never in the plan to let those maniacs meddle with us." He deliberately doesn't say things like _they weren't going to get Skye_ or _that she was supposed to walk free_. He knows he couldn't appeal to John that way.

John scoffs, then nods pointedly towards Skye.

"She was never in the plan. I'm adjusting things according to our situation in a way that we gain the most." Then he opens his arms, taking a step towards Grant, as if he was a benevolent master, granting him more than he deserves. "And anyway, I gave you time to play with her. You had months. Did I ever say that you can't have your fun with her? Did I?" The smile vanishes from his face. "Now playtime is over. And don't tell me that you actually feel something for this little bitch? Don't tell me that you are that weak."

Grant's hands clench into fists. He and John might have had their disagreements in the past; small things, over methods and outcomes, but he always bowed before John's opinion in the end. Because that's how it was supposed to be – he owed John too much to go against him. But this? This crosses the line.

He turns his head, and looks behind his back, sneaking a glance at Skye who's huddling against the wall, unarmed, her hands in handcuffs. He's trying to tell her something, although not even he's sure what. That he's going to protect her? That he's sorry? That he loves her? (There's something in her eyes, although he can't read it quite well.)

But one thing is sure – this time he won't subject his will to John's.

"No," Grant says simply in the end, turning back towards his mentor. "No. You can lock her up, if you want, until it's over, but I won't stand aside and watch you harm her or use her as a bargaining chip."

John actually laughs at this.

"Now you're being ridiculous, son. Don't forget what I've done for you! And you'd pick her side rather than mine?"

"I would." The answer is out before he could think it over, and he's surprised how relieved he feels after saying it out loud.

A strange expression crosses John's face – he pulls his eyebrows together, while his mouth pulls into a malevolent sneer.

"In that case…"

The first blow comes completely unexpectedly – John strikes him right on his fractured cheekbone, not holding back a bit. The hit throws him back, while he sees stars from the pain.

"In that case it's time I show you where your place is," John says, readying for the next hit. This time Grant expects it and dodges, forcing John's hand back. It's harder than he would have thought – the techs at Cybertek might not have succeeded saving John on the long run, but it's sure as hell that they managed to make him as strong as possible.

"And you know what?" John continues as he hits again, this time targeting Grant's chest; he's not fast enough to block, and he can practically hear his ribs crack. "I'll be immensely enjoying putting a bullet into you girl's head after all this."

This spurs Grant on, who tries to go after the panel on John's side, targeting his weakest spot. But John of course anticipates it and grabs his wrist forcing it back. Grant uses the momentum to knee the older man in the gut but it seems to have very little effect on him, apart from having John release his hand. The next moment Grant manages to take a hit though, his fist landing on John's jaw, forcing him to take a step back. But his victory is short-lived – John attacks again right away, this time going for his already tender ribs once again. Grant doubles over in pain, which gives John the opportunity to grab his arm and twist is behind his back, turning Grant's whole body towards the wall.

He expects to see Skye there, maybe terrified, maybe worried about him, maybe still having nothing but hate for him, but she's nowhere to be seen; she's just simply gone. Grant allows himself a smug smile before he feels John's boot at the back of his knees, forcing him to the ground.

The next moment there's the sound of gunfire in the air, and the world seems to stand still for a moment.

He expects to feel the pain at first; then, for a fraction of a second he contemplates why he can still expect the pain – if John wanted to end him, why didn't he shoot him in the head? Why is he alive still?

And then there's a heavy thud behind him.

Clenching his teeth he turns around and is faced with John's body on the ground. He's lying on his back, clutching at a hole on his chest that seems to be an exit wound. He's not dead yet, but he's almost there.

Grant raises his head until his eyes meets Skye's – she's standing maybe fifteen feet from him, by a table, one wrist still in the handcuff, holding a gun with barely-trembling hands.

"I nicked your key," is all her explanation to his wide-eyed, unbelieving gaze as she puts the gun down and walks to him, helping him stand up. "But don't think that everything's forgotten," she says, but there's barely any malice in her voice. "And now let's get out of here."

Grant does the only thing that seems reasonable in this situation – he laughs.


	29. Of Leather and Laughter

**Of Leather and Laughter**

Okay, so it might have been her idea. It might have sounded fun in theory. And Grant might have been all for it. And yeah, shopping was all kinds of exciting.

But the actual thing?

It's beyond… nope.

"You were a very bad boy," she says, trying to sound all dark and sultry, but damn, this is ridiculous. "So I'm going to… punish you?" The end comes out more like a question than a statement, and she can see the muscles in Grant's neck flex. Not because he's so aroused by the situation, but because he's having a hard time ( _ha-ha_ ) not laughing. And honestly, she's right there with him.

Back to the beginning: so she came up with the idea of spicing up their sex life a bit. Not that it needed spicing up, it's just that they are young and all, and why not try it? And since Grant was in practically from the moment she mentioned it, they did some shopping, purchasing a bunch of kinda weird sex toy stuff, and back in the sex shop she was really looking forward trying them all, but now, ready for action, it's just…

Gosh, it's beyond pathetic.

She is standing in front of him in leather from head to toe, her boobs almost flowing out of the corset, and in such platform shoes that she is almost as tall as Grant, and damn it, she is, in theory, about to go all dominatrix on him, and yet, she has never felt herself less sexy.

"Okay," Grant drawls, clearly still having a problem with keeping a straight face as he sits down on the edge of the bed. "Go ahead."

"What?" she asks, completely falling out of character for a moment. "Oh, right…" she mumbles and then looks at the assortment of toys on the table. "I'm going to punish you," she says picking up a red and black paddle made of leather. It looked exciting in the shop, but now… not so much. "I… um…"

"Yes?"

That's the last straw – she starts laughing.

"I'm not going to hit you with this," she says between fits of laughter, dropping it back on the table. "Let's stop pretending that I will."

This is the end of Grant's willpower as well, because his masks slips, he throws his head back and lets out a laugh that's even louder than hers. The forced mood broken, she takes a step towards the bed (she almost trips; gosh, why did she have to buy these shoes?), and plops down on the mattress next to him, sprawling out on her stomach. The next moment Grant lies back as well, turning his face towards her.

"This is so not us," she says, the bed rocking with her chuckles.

"Not at all."

"But we tried."

"We definitely did," he agrees, tracing a finger down the curve of her neck. "It's not your fault that you are too adorable to be a domina."

"I swear, if that pillow was closer, I'd hit you with it."

"Now we are back to punishing me?"

She laughs again, reaching out for him and trying to get him under his arms, as she knows he's ticklish there as well. Grant, of course, retaliates, and the mini tickle-war turns into playful wrestling, and at some point his shirt comes off (she's not one to complain), soon followed by the damned leather corset (just about time; that cursed thing is terribly uncomfortable), and within minutes they are a hot, tangled mess of limbs, panting and moaning and crying out loud, and god, it's glorious.

Afterwards she lies on Grant's chest, sweaty and sated, a lazy smile on her face.

"We so don't need all that stuff," she says when she can finally speak again, drawing nonsensical patterns on his chest. "We are great without them."

"Just great?"

"Amazing?"

"Still doesn't quite fit."

"Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious?"

"Superca… what?" He says laughing, then steal a kiss. "That'll do. Now only one question remains: what to do with all this stuff?"

Skye raises herself to her elbows to look at the display on the table, then gives him a little shrug.

"Hunter's birthday is near – we could give it to him and Bobbi."

Grant spits out a laugh.

"You'd really do that?"

"It's not like we actually used them." She lies back down, making a little, content sound. "We could wrap it all up in a nice gift basket. I'd love to see Hunter's face as he opens it."

Grant laughs out again.

"You know what? You sold that idea to me." Then he adds after a short pause, "But that lacy thing…"

"I'm keeping that lacy thing."

"Good."

Round two soon follows.


	30. Dress Code

**Dress Code**

The Playground had nice, thick brick walls, excellent for keeping the heat out during summer – for a while. But even those walls had their limit, and they had hit that around the fifth day of the merciless heat wave that had been plaguing the D.C. area for over a week. And, despite of the state of the art security system, the building that housed the base was still pretty old, hence no air conditioning, so by day nine the hallways felt like a sauna.

And yet Ward was wearing turtleneck sweaters.

"Are you sure you're alright?" Jemma asked, worried for him, on the third morning after the strange appearance of his winter wardrobe, reaching for his forehead. "You are not running a fever, are you?"

Grant quickly ducked, avoiding Jemma's touch. No, he was not alright. He was sweating bullets, feeling like he was stuck in an oven, but he just couldn't take that damned sweater off.

"I'm fine, I swear. It's just…" he said instead, trying to come up a sensible explanation for his outfit. "I like this sweater."

Jemma frowned a little at his words.

"But doesn't it make you feel hot?"

"Yes, mate," Fitz quipped in, pushing his chair back from the desk and leaning back a bit. The lab was one of the coolest places in the whole Playground, and yet he was down to a T-shirt and shorts. Grant envied him. "I don't know how you can bear it, because this heat is starting to drive me crazy."

"Heat? What heat?" Grant asked with a forced smile as he unsuspiciously started walking towards the door. "It's nothing. I've had worse."

"Still, you could shed some layers, y'know," Fitz continued, with Jemma confirming his words with a firm nod. "It wouldn't hurt."

"Yeah, well… I'll think about it." And with that, he was out of the lab.

He all but sprinted down the hallway to the bunk he shared with Skye (well, not really sprinted – the last thing he needed was things that rise body temperature), and as soon as the door closed behind him, he pulled the sweater off, throwing it to the corner. Skye, who was lounging on the bed, reading a magazine, wearing nothing but a pair of panties and a bra (due to his current situation his delight at the sight of her was overshadow by envy), raised her head at his entrance.

"You okay, babe?" she asked with faux innocence, like she had no idea of what was going on. Hah, as if…

Grant simply grunted in response and marched into the bathroom to put splash some cold water on himself. Standing by the sink, he turned his head to the side to inspect the side of his neck – yep, the angry, red marks were still there; the one at the juncture of his neck already half-faded, but the one on his throat from last night still livid.

Skye sneaked up to him from behind and, wrapping her arms around his middle, she pressed a kiss against hi shoulder blade, then in the sweetest, most mischievous voice she said, "Payback is a bitch, right, hon?"


	31. The Anger Ebbs Away

**The Anger Ebbs Away**

Life is weird, Grant thinks, as he remembers that twenty-four hours ago he was yelling at Skye for talking too much, and now he'd give anything just to hear her babble – because, as it turns out, there are very few things in his world that are worse than a quiet, withdrawn Skye. And worse yet – he feels like it is his fault.

Because he wasn't quick enough. He wanted to end that fight, to put those fanatics to where they belonged, and if he had to take up the Berserker Staff for that again, well, then he was ready to do that. Only Skye was faster than him, faster than May, and it didn't matter that he yelled after her not to do it, she picked the Staff up in a foolish, brave attempt to protect him from the darkness.

His selfless, stupid girl.

Afterwards she just melted into the background, silent and subdued, avoiding everybody's gaze, so unlike her that it hurt. And now she's here, huddling in a dark, lonely corner of a Dublin bar, nursing a drink all alone. His throat tightens at the sight of her – it shouldn't be like this –, but still, it takes him some time and gathering of courage to go over to her. Because what could he offer her? The pain of the shared experience, nothing else (he feels useless). Still, he picks up his glass, and walks over to her.

"Do you mind if I sit with you?" he asks gently. She looks up at him with a tiny smile forming on her lips that doesn't reach her eyes. She gives him a small shake of her head.

"No, not at all," and then her gaze is back on her half-empty glass.

Grant pulls out the chair opposite of her and sits down, but doesn't say a word – after all, what could he say?

Still, after a minute or two of silence, he clears his throat and opens his mouth to talk.

"This anger you are feeling–"

"You know what?" she interrupts him mid-sentence in a small voice. "I'm not even angry."

"No?" he counters; he knows what he felt when he touched the Staff, when it brought his darkest memories to the surface – the rush of hate and wrath, ready to lash and destroy. He is having a hard time imagining her experiencing it a different way.

"Yeah…" she sighs, still avoiding his gaze. "I mean, sure, at first I was angry, angry at the world. But then I sat down to think about it, and now I'm just sad. You know why?" she asks, raising her head a little; he shakes his head no, so she continues. "Because being angry is easy, and it's so pointless, really." She runs her finger along the rim of her glass. "And anyway, whom should I be angry at? My parents for leaving me? They must have had their reasons. The system for failing me? Maybe it was just me who failed the system. Then should I be angry at myself? And what would I accomplish with that? So, there's no point in being angry. But it still leaves me here: alone, like always, when all I've ever wanted is to belong somewhere. And you know what? For a while I thought S.H.I.E.L.D. would be it – but after my stunts in the last couple of weeks, now I'm just waiting for the other shoe to drop. So I'm not angry – I'm past being angry. I'm just sad."

"Hey," he reaches out despite of himself, gently touching her hand. "You are not alone, okay? We are here for you. _I'm_ here for you."

She gives him a rueful little smile.

"For a time being, yeah. But people leave. If I've learned something in the past, it is it: people leave."

"I won't," he says with more conviction in his voice than he's expected, but still meaning it. He is not going to leave her.

Upon hearing this, she actually looks into his eyes. She turns her hand so their fingers intertwine.

"Be careful, Agent Ward!" she warns him with the echo of her usual playfulness in her voice. "Because I might happen to make you keep your word."

The corner of his mouth twitches into a half-smile.

"Well, you have my permission to do so."

She doesn't say a word, just averts her eyes, suddenly kind of bashful, then lets go of his hand and picks up her glass, drinking what's left in it.

"Is there anything else I could help you with?" he asks, suddenly realizing that his anger, too, has been pushed to the background, his concern for Skye being stronger than it. "Anything?"

Her eyes dart around the room, never settling on him, almost as if she was embarrassed by what she is about to ask.

"It might sound silly, but…" she says after a beat of silence, her gaze settling at him, "could you give me a hug? Just a big, bear hug?"

Their eyes lock for one, two, three moments, then he nods, standing up.

"Come here!" He is not good at hugs; he can't even remember the last time he gave somebody a genuine hug. But for her, he is willing to at least try.

Her smile a bit more earnest now, she stands up and steps into his embrace, her arms sneaking under his, her hands coming to rest on his shoulder blades as she lays her head on his shoulder. She is so tiny compared to him, and he really only realizes it now as she is tucked under his chin, and her body feels so fragile that he's afraid he'll break her. But no; she seems to be melting into his embrace, while he feels like something is melting in him, too.

They stay like that for the longest time, maybe getting some strange looks from the other patrons, maybe not; he doesn't care. His world has shrunk to her.

"Thank you," she says after a while, without moving to entangle herself from his arms.

"You're welcome," he replies although he feels like he should be the one to thank her.


	32. Over the Danube

**Over the Danube**

There was a time when he'd given up on… everything. On hope, on love, on happiness, on her.

On Skye.

Back then, he tried to reason with himself (as if he had a choice in the matter): she's better off without him; he's not good enough for her; the best thing he can do for the both of them is to let her go. So he did that.

(At least he tried to; he could have never stopped loving her.)

But then things changed, he changed – he tried to be better –, and now?

This moment is beyond perfect.

She is clinging to his arm, gazing at the sight of the Danube, strands of her hair dancing around her face in the gentle breeze. She doesn't say a word, just smiles at the world, but it's better this way – there's nothing to break the serenity surrounding them, and he can marvel at her.

"Can we go there next?" she points suddenly at the Buda Castle in the distance, turning her head towards her. "…What?" she laughs, taking in his awe-stuck expression.

"Nothing," he says, shaking his head a little and squeezing her hand. "It's just… you're beautiful."

She gives him an expression that he's seen countless of times since they got back together, although he had some problems deciphering it at first. But he knows it now – she wears it when he does something that prompts a sudden surge of love for him in her. When she is so overflown with emotion for him that all but pours out of her.

He loves that expression on her.

(She swears he wears the same one for her all time.)

"You are terrible," she tells him, but stands on the tip of her toes and presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "Terribly corny." Another kiss, this time full on the lips, although she pulls away way too soon. "And I love you too," she whispers, looking into his eyes from under her lashes.

He laughs with her, sneaking an arm around her waist, and leading her along the bridge.

He'll gladly take being called corny – and even worse – every day for the rest of his life, if it means spending it with her.

* * *

 **A/N:** Sorry for the lack of update yesterday, this prompt had me stuck for a moment (and I'm still exactly happy with it). But I'd like to point out that it's my city on the prompt :)


	33. Coldest Nights, Warmest Hearts

**A/N:** Doubly update today, as promised

* * *

 **Coldest Nights, Warmest Hearts**

"I'm not getting out of this bed. Ever," Skye states stubbornly (well, whines, rather), her voice muffled by the duvet pulled over her head.

Grant just laughs as he throws another log at the fire.

"Hey, it's not that cold," he says, trying to hold back the teasing undertone in his voice. "And it'll be even warmer soon, just give it some time."

"You and I have a different definition if 'warm'" she huffs. "Please, I'm a California girl – I need heat to feel good." The covers move as she pulls them even closer to herself. "Next time you say you planned a romantic weekend getaway, and say it's a surprise, I'm going to veto it. I'd rather take Hunter's lewd comments and the risk of Coulson walking in on us than freeze to death."

Chuckling to himself, Grant makes his way to the bed, kicking off his boots as he goes. The cabin they are staying at belongs to a… well, an old acquaintance of his who owned him one. When the Playground started to feel a little crowded, with somebody seemingly always interrupting them when things started to get exciting, he thought a few days on their own was in order, and this cabin seemed like the perfect place to go – cozy, quiet up in the mountains, but just thirty minutes from the civilization. All he needed, really – and anyway, it wasn't like he planned on leaving the bed much. Of course, he didn't count on his girlfriend's distaste of cold.

"It's a shame – I mean that you won't leave the bed," he says in a low, teasing voice. "I had so many plans for us – snowball fights, hot chocolate under the stars…" he goes on, lifting the corner of the duvet and slipping beneath it. "But if you want to stay inside…"

Skye reacts to his closeness right away, turning towards him, and slipping her feet between his legs. Okay, her feet really are a bit cold.

"I do. More than anything. I meant it when is said I'm not moving from here." She slides closer to him as she talks, molding her body into his. "And now, warm me up – it's the least you could do."

His eyes glint mischievously as he throws back the covers (Skye lunges for them right away, pulling them back) and all but jumps from the bed.

"Where the hell are you going?" she calls after him, almost desperate.

"Well, you said you wanted to get warm – so I thought I'd make you some tea. Or you'd prefer hot chocolate?"

Skye let's out something between a scoff and a laugh as she rises to her elbows, reaching after him.

"You cheeky little… Stop acting like you don't know what I mean and come back to me!" He laughs, turning around and climbing back into the bed. "And now give me a kiss."

"Just a kiss? Will it be enough for you to feel warm again?"

"It'll be just the start," she says as she wounds her arms around his neck and leans in to kiss him.

By the time dawn breaks, the cabin is littered with shed clothing, but they are completely comfortable under the covers, sharing body heat.


	34. That Red, Button-Down Dress

**A/N:** Warning – smut ahead.

* * *

 **That Red, Button-Down Dress**

Skye doesn't really wear dresses anymore – they're just not that compatible with an agent's lifestyle. Sure, sometimes – mostly in case of undercover operations – they are all but needed, but on everyday basis they're just not practical. Still, she kinda misses them, and maybe that's why she went "what the hell" that morning and put on a dress – the very same red shirt dress she wore on her first day on the Bus. It just felt so nice to slip into a piece of nostalgia.

What she didn't count on was the others' – or, more specifically, Grant's – reaction to her attire. She saw his eyes darken the moment he stepped out of the bathroom that morning and saw her button up the dress; she could almost read his thoughts, as he imagined pushing her hands away and undoing all the buttons slowly, enjoying every single moment of it. Maybe that's why her eyes flashed to him as she buttoned the last one, her gaze meeting his in a silent challenge.

The day was going to be a sweet torture for him, and she simply loved it.

It might have been cruel, but all through the day she did everything to tease him – sat in a way that the dress would ride up just a bit higher than what would be decent; made sure to lick her lips when she knew he would be watching; sneakily put her hand on his knee, inching upwards when they sat next to each other during lunch. By the time she popped her top button and leaned forward so Grant would get a nice view of her boobs, and maybe even a sneak peek of her black lacy bra during Coulson's afternoon briefing, and saw his Adam's apple bob, she knew she was in for a treat tonight.

And true – they are barely out of the conference room and earshot of the others, he is already pulling her towards their bunk with the urgency a man lost in the desert hurries towards the oasis. As soon as the door is closed behind them, she is pushed against the wall and he is on her. Not that she is complaining.

"You little minx," he breathes just a moment before he presses his mouth on the pulse point on her neck, biting gently. "You'll be the death of me, I swear."

She wants to laugh at him, but it is turned into a moan as he undoes two more buttons and his hand slips beneath the dress, squeezing her breast. So he can play dirty, too… Her hands in his hair, she pushes his head down, just to get the message across of what she wants. And he gets it, because the next moment he gives up on carefully unbuttoning the dress and simply yanks at it, sending several buttons flying around the room (she tries to be not too annoyed by this; they are just buttons, they can be easily sewn back. And if not, well, then she can make him buy her a new dress).

Still, it's a turning point.

Letting go of his head, she places her hands on his shoulders and gives him a little shove. He stumbles back a bit, looking at her a little surprised, and maybe a little scared (did he go too far?), but then the next moment she's pulling his shirt out of his pants.

"Take it off!" she commands, and he complies, pulling the Henley over his head while she quickly undoes his belt and fly, then, as he shoves down his pants, stepping out of them and his shoes, she shrugs off the dress, letting it fall on the floor behind her. Then she pushes against him again, making him back into the bed. This time she doesn't even have to say a word – he lies back on his own, propped up against the pillows, pulling her with him.

Then his lips, hungry, demanding, are on hers again, kissing her mercilessly, his tongue plunging into her mouth, while he buries his hands in her hair, messing it up gloriously. She deliberately settles over him in a way that only their upper halves are touching – her legs on either side of his hips, she keeps herself above him, just to tease him. Of course, he soon becomes impatient with their situation and tries to move to flip them over so he could take the reins, but she places her hands on his chest, pushing him back.

"No," she says, leaning down and running her tongue along his collarbone. "Let me be on top."

"Skye…" he breathes, half a plea, half a curse, but he still lets her lead.

This time it's her who attacks his mouth, biting down on his lower lip with enough force to elicit a hiss from him. She feels his hands move to the clasp of her bra, and she has half a mind to swat his hands away, to tease him a bit longer, but then she decides against it, and, instead, helps him get off the black garment. The next moment his mouth is on her nipple, sucking it, while his hand is already on the other breast, playing with its weight, and it's more than enough to convince her that she's made the right decision (her man is a genius with his mouth).

His ministrations have her arch her back, her hips grinding down on him, feeling his erection through the two layers of fabric that is still separating them. He bucks his hips against her, letting out a groan, and it's enough for her to push harder against him, moving her hips in an agonizingly slow, rocking motion. He sucks on her nipple even harder – hard enough to leave a mark –, before he grunts out "Skye…"

She grabs his hand and brings it down to her mound.

"Touch me," she commands in sultry voice, kissing him again, deep, wild.

He doesn't have to be told twice – his hand slips into her panties, not teasing, but going straight for clit, rubbing the little bundle of nerves with the kind of determination and precision she expects from him. She is already wet and aching for him, and his touch is only oil to the fire. She cries out, throwing her head back, her hands sliding down his chest, her nails scratching hard enough to leave faint, red lines behind. Taking it as an encouragement, he suddenly moves his hand – she hears a tear, her panties being ripped off –, then slips two finger into her without warning.

That's it – enough of the fooling around.

She grabs his wrist and pulls it away – still, she can't hold back the little whine at the loss of contact –, then rises a bit so she can tug down his boxers. Freed, his hard member stands proud, a drop of precum on the tip. She pumps him, smearing it on his length – she can see his eyes roll back –, then holds him steady and takes him inside, sliding down on him in one fluid movement.

She moans at the perfection of the feeling; he is just her kind if big, filling and stretching her gloriously, like they were made to fit each other.

She only gives herself a moment to adjust, then starts moving, forgoing the slow buildup. Grant's left hand flies to her hip, gripping her, trying to help her steady as he thrusts against her, while his other goes to her left breast, squeezing and the tweaking the nipple. All the while his gaze is locked on her, flicking between how the pleasure is etched on her face, how her breasts move, and how his shaft keeps slipping out of her, then back in.

As her movements start to become more and more frantic, as she gets closer and closer to the edge, he pulls his knees up a bit, changing their angle just a fraction, but still letting him thrust deeper, hitting a sweet spot inside of her, while his hands slides down from her breast to between them, rubbing her clit, helping her along.

"C'mon, babe," he tells her, punctuated with a grunt as he gives her a forceful thrust. "Come for me."

This, and the little pinch he gives her clit does it – the next moment she explodes. She cries out, her back arching and her hips stilling as her walls flutter around him, clamping down on him. With her pleasure-addled brain she registers in the middle of her orgasm that he freezes up, too, giving her a few last, punctuated thrusts as he spills his seed into her.

When it's over, and the high tide of pleasure slowly ebbs away, she falls down on him, sprawling across his chest. Skin sweaty, and their mixed juices sticky between them, she tries to catch her breath while his heart hammers against her ear as she rests her head on his chest. It takes a good minute or two for both of them to come down from their highs and have enough breath to speak again.

"You owe me a pair of panties," she tells him without moving an inch. "At least."

His chest rocks with his quiet chuckles.

"Alright," he says. "But only if you promise me you'll be wearing dresses more often from now on."


	35. Changing Tides

**Changing Tides**

It was supposed to be one mission, nothing more – keeping a Portugese scientist with leading research in genetics away from HYDRA's clutches. It seemed simple enough at first, but soon proved to be more than what S.H.I.E.L.D. could handle at the moment, so Coulson brought him in, first only for intel, then, pulling him from his cell, as an operative. They had an agreement – if Grant tried something during the mission, he'd get a bullet in his head within a moment's notice; if he didn't, and decided to walk afterwards, Coulson'd look the other way.

The mission ran longer than he'd anticipated, forcing them the run around the continent for almost a week before they were finally able to place the scientist in a safehouse on Copenhagen. During these six days, Grant relished every moment he could spend with the team, not matter how awkward and painful they were. And although there were moments when he almost let himself hope – Fitz forgetting about himself and clapping him on the back; Simmons fussing over his wound when a bullet grazed him; being cooped up in an abandoned apartment with Skye for six hours, actually having an honest conversation –, in the end he decided to take Coulson's offer and walk.

He didn't even say goodbye; he just grabbed his bag and while the others were helping the professor settle in, he walked straight out of the door. But he barely got to the middle of the square when he heard somebody yell after him.

"Ward!"

The voice was so familiar, so dear to him, that he stopped and turned around. Skye was running towards him, her jacket hastily thrown on, the collar sticking up, her hair billowing in the wind. (He just couldn't stop the small, nostalgic from forming on his face.)

"Where the hell are you going?" she asked him when she reached him, stopping barely a step from him, crossing her arms in front of her chest.

"I don't know," he shrugged. "Away from here. Start a new life, maybe."

"Why don't you… you know, stay?" she said in a small voice, almost looking like a saddened child as she looked up at him. He almost felt like laughing at the absurdity of the situation.

"Because that would make everybody so damn happy! I can just see you guys welcoming me back with open arms, not wanting to stab a knife in my back whenever I turned around." He adjusted the strap of his backpack on his shoulder. "Good bye, Skye! I'll miss you," he added the last part as an afterthought as he turned to leave.

But before he could have taken a step further, she put her hand on his arm and pulled him back. He wanted to snap at her and tell her to let him go, to stop pretending, he wanted to be harsh and cruel, but he never got the chance to. Because as soon as he was facing her again, her hands was on his neck, pulling him down as she raised herself on the tip of her toes, and the next moment she was kissing him.

It was slow and sweet, almost like their first kiss, shared in the janitor's closet in the Hub, only longer, and without the urgency of their almost-certain death. It shocked him so much that it took him seconds to respond to her touch, and when he finally moved, she was already pulling away.

"Here's the deal, Robot," she told him, her eyes a little dazed, but her voice full of confidence. "We don't want you to go – because yes, I've talked it over with FitzSimmons, and they agree with me. And Coulson said it's cool, sure, you'll be on probation or whatever, but who cares? We want you back, so we can give you another shot. Because damn it, Ward, you more than proved during these last few days what a good man you can be if you try. I have a feeling that this is the real Grant Ward, and if I'm right, and I'm sure I'm right, I want you around to get to know him better. Remember that once you told me that someday I'll understand? Now I do. So I've decided to forgive you. But now you have to prove me that I'm not making a mistake." She took a deep breath. "Do we have an understanding?"

He merely nodded at her, not really sure whether he should be smiling or not.

"We do. Now how do you want me to proceed?"

She sighed and ran her hand through her hair.

"Well, for starters you could come back to the house with me for Coulson's briefing, because he's gonna take my head if I'm late." He almost chuckled at this, finally daring to smile. "Wait, no," she added suddenly. "I changed my mind. You should start with giving me a kiss, really."

And that's what he does.

* * *

 **A/N:** I have been asked a couple of times in the las few days whether picture submission is still open for this story. The answer is yes! Submission is open until further notice – in fact, I'd like publish at least a hundred chapters for this story, and up until now, I've had fifty-eight submissions. So there are still a bunch of slots open. (Also, if you have qualms about submitting a pic to Tumblr, give me a line, we can work out some other method.)


	36. Morning Routine

**Morning Routine**

For the longest time, Grant had a very strict morning routine: wake up, work out, shower, breakfast and coffee, start the day. For more than a decade – with minor adjustments – it worked for him just fine. But, of course, life changes, and habits change with it – and so, his mornings look rather different now.

He still wakes early – he doubts that will ever change –, but he doesn't just jump out of bed anymore; nowadays he likes to roll to his side first, so he can marvel at his bedmate for a few minutes before the day starts. Skye always looks so peaceful as she sleeps in the pre-dawn light, her dark hair fanning over her pillow, eyes closed, lashes casting faint shadows over her cheeks, lips slightly parted. Seeing her like this, he swears he falls in love with her again and again every morning.

When he's gotten his share of her, he carefully climbs out of bed, not to disturb her (although he's sure he'd at least need a canon to wake her up this early), throws on something appropriate to be seen in (which sometimes proves a challenge, as some mornings he finds his clothes strewn around the room as the aftermath of their eagerness of the previous night), then leaves the room, silently closing the door behind himself.

His path, then, leads to the base's kitchen to make coffee – the very substance Skye just can't wake up without. He turns on the machine, then opens the cabinet, looking for her favorite mug, which is more like a little bowl. He bought her that one, as a little, sentimental gift – they were just testing the waters with their rekindled relationship after Coulson had given him a second chance, and he was in a flash op in London when he saw it in a shop window. A modest, but cheery, cream colored little mug, with hearts and the inscription _Smile! I love you!_ on the side. It immediately reminded him of Skye, so he bought it. At first he was a little afraid he was going a little too far – the mug said _I love you_ , after all –, but when he saw her eyes sparkle as she lifted it from the gift bag, just before she threw herself in his arms, all of his fears disappeared. It's been her favorite mug ever since.

By the time the coffee is brewed, some members of the team are usually waking up, too. Grant often runs into – surprisingly – Hunter in mornings, who, bleary-eyed and only half awake, usually tries to make some joke about how whipped he is, making his girlfriend coffee at six in the morning. Hearing this, Grant usually just smiles – partially because Hunter is not sharp enough this early to be actually witty, and partially because, damn it, he is right, and Grant doesn't mind it the slightest.

When Skye's coffee done – three sugars, a generous amount of milk –, he makes his way back to their bunk. By then she is usually stirring, her unconscious pulling her from her dream, alerting her of his absence. The dip of the mattress as he sits down next to her and the scent of the coffee just help this process.

He loves to be there when she first opens her eyes in the morning, first giving him a lazy blink, then a tiny, reluctant groan as she burrows deeper into the covers. Usually, it takes her a good minute to actually wake up, fully open her eyes, sit up with a slow smile on her face and take the mug from him. Despite of her protests, he just simply finds her adorable, especially this early in the morning.

It's not until her mug is empty, and the last drops of coffee are still on her lips, when her eyes finally, really find his. When their gazes lock, and a mischievous smile is playing on her lips.

"You really are striving for the "best boyfriend ever" title," she says then, putting the mug down on the bedside table, and sneaking her arms around his neck. "Good morning," she whispers against his lips and kisses him.

And then the day can start.


	37. Of Families Found

_Prompt picture submitted by nathyfaith, in response to a headcanon I shared with her. The said headcanon is incorporated to the story_

* * *

 **Of Families Found**

Grant is standing on the porch of the Barton house, elbows resting on the railing as he watches Haylie and Nate run along the meadow, chasing each other and, when they feel like it, picking flowers and placing them in the basket Laura gave them with surprising care. He lets out a sigh – Haylie is turning three in just two weeks, she's already her own little person, stubborn and lovely just like her mother, and he is having a hard time wrapping his head around how quickly time flies.

"It feels like if you closed your eyes for a moment, she'd grow up by the time you opened them again, right?" Grant hears Clint's calm, confident voice from behind him as the older man approaches him. "I was the same way with all three of them."

"I don't even have to close my eyes – it already feels like she's growing too fast," he smiles as he takes the bottle of cold beer offered to him.

"Thank God you've already taken care of the next one, in case you feel like you've missed something," Clint says in a teasing tone, pointing towards the kitchen where the girls are cooing over the seven month old Ada, prompting a chuckle from Grant. "Truth to be told, kid, I think you are faring a lot better with this one with the first."

That Grant can agree with – his whole relationship with Clint Barton, and subsequently with his whole family, started when a mission brought them together not long after they'd found out that Skye was pregnant with Haylie. There's no point in denying things: he was freaking out, freaking out bad, and Clint picked up on it. So he drew him to the back of the quinjet, and gave him a heartfelt, if somewhat corny, motivational speech about fatherhood and how everybody screws up a little. It not only managed to calm him down and let him approach his newest challenge with a clearer head, but ever since then Clint had become his to-go guy in every fatherhood related question, and despite of having no relation, his kids are growing up knowing the Barton children as cousins.

"I'm learning," Grant says with a little shrug, taking a sip from the beer. "By the time the next one comes along, I'll be a pro."

Clint lets out a laugh.

"You want more kids?"

Grant tries not to smile like a goofball he is at Clint's question, but doesn't really succeed.

"I love the girls to bits, and I wouldn't mind having more of them."

"And Skye?"

"I haven't discussed it with her yet," he admits, turning a bit away from Clint, and hiding his smirk with the bottle. "But it was actually her who brought up trying for a second baby first, so…"

Clint just nods at that, sipping his beer leisurely, while silently thinking about how far his friend has gotten from the scared young man he first met, who was so damn sure that he was not cut out to be a father that he was ready to have a panic attack right before their mission. And, honestly, Clint is rather proud of him.

But before he could voice that, their conversation is interrupted by Haylie, who runs to her father with tears in her eyes. The girl is still only about halfway to them, when Grant has already put down his drink, and is rushing towards his daughter. Clint watches from the distance as he picks Haylie up, propping her on his hip, then has a short, quiet conversation with her, which ends with him pressing a kiss against the girl's little hand.

"Nettle rash," Grant announces when he gets back to the porch. "Do you…?"

"There should be something for it in the bathroom," Clint nods, turning towards the meadow for a moment to see Nate walking back towards to house as well, basket of flowers in his hand. "Just ask Laura."

"Thanks," Grant tells him, stepping into the house, still consoling the teary eyed little girl with a level of gentleness one would never expect from a specialist. Clint just can't keep himself from smiling.

So much for not being cut out to be a father.


	38. Picture Spam

**Picture Spam**

When Fitz bought a digital camera for Grant and Skye as a wedding gift – so they could capture every significant moment –, then asked them to take some photos for him on their honeymoon (yeah, because they got a month off with Coulson's consent to gallivant around the world the way they fancied), he didn't exactly mean _this_.

Letting out a somewhat annoyed sigh and putting down the piece of _very delicate_ machinery he was working on at the moment, he reached for his cell phone as it beeped for the third time that day, announcing the arrival of an e-mail. And, sure enough, just like the previous two and the four other the previous day, the message was from Ward – a practically empty e-mail (Fitz didn't count the smiling emoticon as actual text), with about half a dozen pictures attached. Opening them with a tiny smile on his face – as annoying they could be from time to time, he was happy for his friends' happiness –, he saw it was a serial shot: the first one had Skye with her back to the camera, standing by some kind of balustrade, looking out a body of water. On the second, she half-turned towards the photographer – Ward, without doubt –, lips parted, wisps of hair flying around her face, apparently not yet fully understanding that she is being photographed, but looking like a bloody supermodel. On the third she's come to the realization that candid pictures are being taken of her, and she is grinning wildly, her eyes twinkling. The fourth is very much like the third, only she has her tongue stuck out at Grant. On the fifth, she's in motion, lunging for Grant – either to grab the camera or to throw herself into his arms. The sixth is nothing more than misty, grey clouds and a lock or two of dark hair in the corner. The seventh and last one is a selfie, taken by Skye, judging from the angle, with both of them grinning like idiots.

Chuckling to himself and shaking his head – who would have thought that Grant Ward would turn out to be such an eager photographer? –, Fitz closed his e-mails and put down the phone.

"Oh, did you get some news on Skye and Ward?" asked Jemma, stepping into the lab with a tray of test tubes in her hands. "What did they say? How are they? Where are they now, anyway?"

"By some water," Fitz shrugged, "it wasn't clear from the pictures. But Ward is still all goggly-eyed over Skye, only now he is collecting evidence of it through taking photos, and they are still stupidly in love, doing lovey-dovey things that their past selves from a year or two ago would be embarrassed of," he explained, gesturing comically.

"So they are having a great time, and nothing has changed?" Jemma asked with a teasing little smile, turning away from her own workstation.

"Nothing at all," Fitz agreed, turning back to his work, but hoping his friends weren't having a too good time, because he wasn't sure how well Coulson would react if, upon returning from their honeymoon, Grant and Skye would tell him that he was going to be a grandpa.


	39. Pull Me Back from the Edge

**Pull Me Back from the Edge**

It all happens in a blink of an eye.

One moment he is at the door, with his back to the room, looking for possible threats and the next a gun is fired behind his back. For a fraction of a second he expects the pain, believing that Skye's just shot him, but when it doesn't come, he turns around in haste, panic rising in his chest.

The HYDRA soldier Grant believed Skye's father had killed is alive and awake, holding his gun in his trembling hand, pointing it at… at Skye – at Skye, who is already stumbling to the ground, a veil of pain on her face.

He feels like his heart has just been crushed.

He is at the soldier's side in an instant, grabbing his head and yanking it to the side, breaking his neck, neutralizing the threat – now, maybe for the first time ever, he doesn't feel even a sliver of remorse for killing. The next moment, he is running for Skye.

He is there just in time to catch her before she'd fall. With his arm around her, he carefully lowers her to the ground, kneeling beside her. She looks bad, really bad – her face pale, almost lifeless, eyelids dropping, while her hand is pressed against her side. He peels that hand away gently to assess the wound – the bullet entered her on the right side, on the lower portion of her ribcage with no exit wound; far enough from the heart so he doesn't have to worry about that, but still close enough that it might have punctured her lung. And she is bleeding, losing blood fast, way too fast. Acting mostly on instinct, he shrugs off his jacket, bunches it up and presses it against the wound, trying the staunch the blood flow, or at least slow it down until he can come up with a better idea.

"Skye, just hold on, okay? Just hold on, and I'll…" he tells her frantically, his specialist's mask slipping, panicking. He's already almost lost her once, it can't happen again, she can't bleed out right here in his arms, she just can't…

"Grant…" she whispers, her voice weak, but it is still enough to make him still and focus completely on her, because she's just called him by his first name, something she's rarely ever done, something she hasn't done in a long time, not since… Not since everything went south. "I have to…" she says, but her sentence is broken off by a pained groan.

"No, no, sweetheart, don't speak." The term of endearment slips out without his permission, as he raises one of his hands to her face, caressing her cheek, but his fingers leaving bloody marks on her skin. "Don't waste your strength."

"But I have to tell you this," her voice is barely above whisper. "I have to tell you, because I… I might not get another chance."

"Don't say things like that – you'll be okay, I swear, Skye, you'll be okay…"

"But if I'm not…" She lets out a strangled little noise which he knows she intended to be a chuckle. "If I'm not I want you to know…" She closes her eyes and takes a breath, while placing her hand on his and squeezing it; she is way weaker than he'd like. "I understand. At least I think I understand – what you did before and what you did now. And Grant–" She coughs, her whole body seizing up. After that, there's blood on her lips. "Thank you for letting me meet my father. And for everything else – I forgive you," the last part she says with a tiny smile playing on her lips as her yes flutter closed again.

It awfully feels like a goodbye, and he just won't have it – he won't let her go now, now that she… now that she says she's forgiving him. When everything he's been battling for might be coming true. When he might get another chance to prove himself and his love for her.

"No," he says with newfound determination, pressing down his jacket to her wound tighter. "No. Don't you think I'll just take your forgiveness this simply." He grabs her hand and presses it against the fabric as well, showing her how to keep it down. "You have lost too much blood, you are not in your right mind. Sorry, Rookie, but you'll have to do this whole speech again once you're better, because I'm sure as hell won't let you die on me." And then, on a stupid impulse, he leans down and kisses her forehead. "Remember, Skye? You staying alive is still on me."

Satisfied with her tiny, barely-there nod and how she is holding the makeshift dressing down, he stands up, his plan already formulating in his head – her father, as crazy he might be, is a doctor, and Grant saw some kind of a medical kit with him; he sure can stabilize her, and then Coulson surely has a quinjet on standby, and with that they can get her to a hospital, where she can have a chance.

And she must survive – after all this, she just must. And then? He doesn't really care – if she'll be okay, and still keeps to her word that she's forgiven him, they can lock him up for the rest of his life for all he cares, because he'll still have what he wants the most.


	40. In Another Universe

**In Another Universe**

Once, back during the happy times, Grant sat in the lab and listened to Simmons and Fitz prattle about the possible existence of infinite number of parallel universes where they all exist, only in different forms. He didn't really have anything to add, but he was happy to listen on the science duo's discussion about whether people connected in one universe would be connected in another, and what forms they might exists in one different from theirs. Grant didn't believe any of it – his mind was just too focused on this world to even consider the existence of others –, but Fitz and Simmons were an amusing distraction, so he stayed.

Little did he know that in another universe Grant Ward is a man of the sea – a pirate, if you will. High ranking member and treasured swordsman of Captain John Garrett's crew, the man's who pulled him from the streets when he was a kid and made him a man. But he is also the man who, for the last couple of years, has been obsessed with obtaining immortality, no matter what the cost. Who is willing to sink ships and burn down villages just to get to his goal.

Little did he know that this pirate version of him has started doubting his captain and his ambitions. That he's had no desire for the fight and bloodshed; that he appreciates being a fine warrior, but that there are days when he'd rather be a protector. That he longs for peace and stability, a place to call home that is not a cabin on a ship.

Little did he know that Captain Garrett has a new plan to get what he wants: finding and cornering a mermaid, and pressuring her until she gave out all her secrets, because, apparently, mermaids are immortal. The pirate version of him, of course, finds this idea ridiculous, but humors Garrett – if he wants to do this, let him. His ship, his time to waste.

Little did he know that this other version of him doesn't believe in mermaids, or any other magical folk, for the record. He believes that every kind of magic is just fallacy, not worth believing on. Even immortality is just, for lack of a better word, an illusion.

Little did he know that this other version of him would actually find a mermaid. Shocked, he stands in the water in front of the terrified mermaid, holding his sword and looking at the creature, not really believing his eyes. She might be just an illusion, after all, since mermaids don't exist – but even if she is, she is lovely one. She is the most beautiful girl he's ever seen – long, dark hair and sun-kissed skin, big, dark eyes and full lips, begging to be kissed.

Little did he know that this other version of him would fall in love with the mermaid – Skye; that version of Skye – at first sight.

Little did Grant know, that his other version lets Skye go – he just can't have such a pure creature in captivity, or worse, but he watches as she swims away.

Little did Grant know that his pirate version of him would never tell Garrett what he saw – that mermaids really do exist.

Little did Grant know that Captain Garrett would die less than a year later – hanged, dead in a way all stupid pirates who get caught die.

Little did Grant know that this other version of him would give up and turn his back the piracy. The he would vow to spend of the rest of his life looking for his beautiful mermaid.

Little did Grant know that one day he would find her.

It's all because Grant Ward, the Grant Ward who lives on a plane, the HYDRA mole who is making genuine friends in S.H.I.E.L.D., and who dreads the day HYDRA will emerge, doesn't believe in parallel universes. Or mermaids. But he does believe in love – and Skye. But, maybe, these two are the very same thing.


	41. Silly, Romantic Gestures

**A/N:** Sorry for the lack of update yesterday – I was sick, and spent most of my day in bed, switching between being half- and completely asleep. I'm still not completely 100% yet, but getting there. And I promise I'll make up for the missed chapter.

* * *

 **Silly, Romantic Gestures**

When she finally decided to give Grant Ward another chance after everything, Skye had expected occasional breakdowns and fights, complete devotion, passion, and, yeah, great sex. And she got those, to varying extent (but especially the sex). What she didn't expect, though, way corniness – the Grant Ward she had once got to know was simply not capable of being corny. He was simply too much of a… robot.

This was, it seemed, not true to this new version of him.

"Hey," he said softly, somewhat even shyly, standing on her doorstep, knocking on the doorframe.

"Hey," she called back from sitting at her desk, raising her head at his voice, and smiling when she saw him. "So you got back in one piece?" she asked teasingly, referencing to the flash op he took part in that day.

"Not even a scratch," he chuckled, stepping into her room. "But you can do a throughout, full-body search for injuries, if you want."

Her grin widened – okay, so she might have had something for this flirty side of his.

"I might even take you up on that later," she teased, "but first of all: what's that in your hand?" With him standing only a feet or two from her by then, she all but lunged for the hand held behind his back, but he blocked it easily, side-stepping her with a grin on his face.

"It's for you, actually," he said, squatting down beside her chair so they would be at the same level. "Just a little something that reminded me of you," he continued, handing her the small gift box. "Please, don't laugh."

"Why would I…" she started as she ripped off the ribbon from the box and opened it, but the second part of the sentence died on her lips when she saw what was inside.

It was a bracelet, cute, but simple enough – a tan, braided cord with a delicate, silver key charm of intricate detail. She loved it.

"Oh, Grant…" she sighed, already picking it out of the box to put it on. Grant took it from her, carefully unclasped it, then placed on her wrist, caressing the soft skin there with the tips of his fingers, even after the bracelet was secure on her.

"It's not just it," he said, looking into her eyes. Shrugging back the sleeve of his sweater, he showed her his wrist: there lay a similar bracelet, only instead of a key, it had a charm of a lock. "I just saw it, and…" He let out a small chuckle. "Call me an idiot, but you've always had the key to my heart, even when I didn't know I wanted it opened. So when I saw it, it reminded me of you, and I just had to get it. It's not an engagement ring or anything – I know we are not there yet –, but I want you to know how much you mean to me, and it seemed like an appropriate sign for that."

Oh, damn – she most definitely didn't have tears in her eyes. She was way too old to get teary eyed over grand, romantic gestures made by adorable men.

"Grant… You…" she stammered, and when nothing else intelligible seemed to come out, she shook her head, grabbed his face, pulled him close and kissed him, deep and passionate, pouring her very soul into that kiss. When it ended she didn't pull away, but rested her forehead against his, and, looking into his eyes said, "I love you too, you idiot."


	42. Silly, Romantic Gestures, Part II

**Silly, Romantic Gestures, Part II**

Skye is not a big fan of knocking – Grant hasn't yet completely figured it out whether she does it with other people as well, or if it is a privilege reserved only for him, but it doesn't change the fact that she is rather fond of simply barging into his room, without any kind of warning.

"I'm back!" she announces, throwing his door open with total lack of finesse before all but skipping to his bed where he's reading a book, and plopping down on the edge of the mattress. She doesn't even have to say a word – he already knows something is up. Still, grinning and shaking his head, he picks up his bookmark from the nightstand, places it between the pages and puts down his book, devoting his complete attention to her.

"Welcome back," he leans forwards and steals a kiss. "And how did the mission go?"

Calling it a mission is a bit of a stretch – she spent the day with May and Trip getting supplies ('a glorified grocery run' she called it, and he had to agree with her to some extent), but he is learning how to take things lightly, and joking about things like this is light, right?

Skye bits into her lip, clearly to keep herself from grinning (it's not exactly successful), running her gaze around the room.

"Great. Even managed to sneak in some of that candy Fitz likes. Oh," she adds almost as a second thought, although he has a feeling she's rehearsed this conversation in her head about a dozen times, "I almost forgot – I got you something, too."

His eyes widen a bit in surprise.

"Skye, you really shouldn't have…"

"But I did. I had to reciprocate your super corny gift," she says, shaking her wrist, making the tiny, silver key charm on her bracelet sways. (He just can't keep the grin off his face at the sight of it.) "And I saw it, it reminded me of you, so I got it – it was the same way with you, right?" she continues, slipping the strap of her bag off her shoulder and drawing it into her lap, reaching for the zipper.

He'd lie if anybody asked, but his heartrate actually goes up a notch in anticipation.

But before she would actually tug on the zipper, Skye stops and looks him square in the eye.

"Close your eyes!"

"What?"

"Close your eyes!" she repeats, before letting her shoulders drop a little. "It's not wrapped, and it would be… such a letdown to simply hand it to you. So, please, close your eyes! And don't open them until I tell you so!"

Grant smiles and shakes his head at her childish – adorable – request, but complies, letting his eyelids drop.

"Did you really close them?"

"Yes."

"How many fingers am I holding up?"

"Skye…"

"Okay, okay… Hold out your hands!"

He does, then in the next moment he hears her bag being opened, then the rustle of a plastic bag, before something soft is placed in his hands.

"Alright, you can open 'em," she says, and he obeys.

The first thing he sees is Skye, sitting opposite of him, biting her nails, looking all kinds of excited to see his reaction to her gift; only then does he turn his gaze down – and then lets out a laugh.

In his hands lies a black T-shirt with a silhouette of a dog and the inscription _I like big mutts and I cannot lie_ in blueand white on it _._ Amused by the ridiculousness of her gift, he leans forward, silent laughter shaking his body. Only Skye would… Oh, Skye…

His love for this woman knows no bounds, really.

"Do you like it?" she asks almost shyly after a few seconds. Instead of answering her with words right away, he places the T-shirt on the mattress, then reaches for her, drawing her close, and giving her a kiss.

"I love it," he breaths before diving in for another kiss, a longer, more passionate one this time, one that leaves both of them panting. "But my gift is still cornier."

Skye pulls her eyebrows together, scowling at him, although the fact that her hands are sneaking under his shirt while she does that dampen the effect of it a little.

"It's not like it's a competition."

"But I still won," he teases while leaning forward, seeking her neck with his lips – but before he could reach her, he is tackled to the bed, and Skye is crawling on top of him.

"Oh, you…! Game on, Terminator!"

Needless to say, his new T-shirt is not the only piece of clothing that ends on the floor that night.


	43. Watch Me Fall Apart

**Watch Me Fall Apart**

Grant often thinks that the two of them, he and Skye, could easily hold a seminar on masks and pretending.

He on showing a world a version of himself that doesn't even exist, on selling a cover.

She on acting all confident and flippant, while breaking into little pieces inside.

The only thing he is glad about is that they are past the point where they have to keep on their masks in front of each other – he trusts her enough to show her his real self; she feels safe enough with him to let him see her fall apart.

She is a sensitive person – he guesses it comes with the territory when somebody has a heart so big and loving as hers is –, and although she might act like everything is okay, tough missions, missions that doesn't go according to plan, when there are bodies left behind, innocent people whom they were supposed to protect, often leave her in ruins. And then she'll come to him.

She'll tiptoe into his room and walk up to him, seeking out his embrace. She'll look into his eyes so he'll be able to read every ounce of pain and hurt in her gaze, and then, just then, when she knows he _gets it_ , she'll tuck herself under his chin, and will simply _let go_.

She'll cry, because she just has to let it out sometimes. She'll cry, big, ugly crocodile tears, until her eyes are blotched and her cheeks are red and her nose is running and she can't breathe properly. And he won't say a word, because he knows that it's not the time for that yet, so he'll just hold her, swaying softly from side to side in a calming rhythm until her sobs quieten. Then he'll lead her to the bed and lie down with her, so her head will rest right over his heart.

And then, they can talk – share and help and plan and dream.

Their love rests on many pillars – their silent understanding of the other, the fact that they don't need to pretend with each other is one of them. Because it's just with Grant that Skye dares to look weak and scared. And it's only with Skye that Grant dares to act caring and sentimental. And they wouldn't give it up for all the treasure of the world.


	44. In Dawn's Light

**A/N:** I have been meaning to write an AU where we have established Skyeward during the time when Skye goes through her Terrigenesis for some time (actually, as grand plans go, it's part of my Haylie/Ada-verse), and now this pic prompt gave me an opportunity to do it. Still, there's a lot of ground to cover yet – imagine all of Grant's frustration over this situation, Skye in distress, but not haven an enemy he can protect her from. So… I guess I'll be returning to this situation :)

* * *

 **In Dawn's Light**

It's rare that she wakens before him, and it's even rarer that she can leave the bed without rousing him – but even when she does, her absence always pulls him from his sleep in a matter of minutes.

It doesn't happen any other way that night either.

Opening his eyes, the dark, blue-grey dimness of the still unfamiliar room greets him – it's only their first night here, in Fury's secret cabin out in the heart of the forest. There's no need to try to make it sound nice: it's quarantine, it's exile, for an infinite period of time, something he willingly took up so he could stay by Skye's side during this terrifying, uncertain time. Only Skye's gone from his side.

His hand reaches out, looking for her, but finding nothing but crumpled sheets on her side of the bed. At least those are still warm, indicating that she left not a long ago. He climbs out of the bed, alert and wide awake, but not worried. The place is secure – no enemy could have gotten within its borders without them noticing, and she couldn't have gone far either. Still, there is some dark, restless emotion unfurling in his chest as he walks outside, looking for her.

She's going through a difficult time, something so much more difficult than he could ever really fathom – finally meeting her father just to learn that he's a monster, then getting caught up in a whirlpool of events and emerging from with powers she can neither control or understand –, and even though he tries, tries to be there and help, he feels he can never be enough, and it's crushing him from the inside.

In the end, he finds her outside, standing barefoot on the edge of the pond, the dawn light painting her in pale purples and blues, with a splash of orange here and there as the rising sun reflects from the water. She is standing with her back to him, looking out to the distance, hugging herself tightly, but unmoving. He approaches her slowly, carefully, not wanting startle her.

"Hey," he says once he's close enough to her that he knows she feels his presence anyway. "The bed felt lonely without you," he tries to cheer her up with a light joke, and he half-succeeds, because one corner of her mouth twitches upwards as she turns towards him, her gaze soft and loving and tired and _oh so lost_.

"Sorry," she says so quietly it almost doesn't even sound like her. "I couldn't sleep. I came out to think."

He takes a step towards her, so she is now close enough to touch.

"Are you okay?"

The only answer she gives him is a noncommittal shrug. She's been giving him those a lot these days – "Are you okay?" A shrug. "Do you need something?" A shrug. "Do you want to talk?" A shrug. "Do your arms hurt?" A shrug. Like nothing really mattered anymore. And he was so damn hell-bent on showing her that it did. That she did.

"I guess," she says in the end, turning back towards the water. "I'm just…" She sighs, and he can almost see her closing her eyes for a moment. "Scared, I guess."

With that overwhelming need to protect her driving him, he crosses the last of the distance separating them, and places his hand on her forearm. He only means to have her turn towards him so he can look into her eyes, but the next moment she moves – she swirls around and barrels into his chest, tucking herself under his chin while her arms go around him, encircling his torso, until she clings to him, almost fusing their bodies together. It takes him a fraction of a second to react, but when he does, he reciprocates her embrace just as eagerly.

Caressing her hair and inhaling the sweet scent of her shampoo that mixes with the morning scents of the forest, he pulls her close, without ever planning on letting her go.

"We'll get through this," he promises, whispering into her ear, although he has no idea how they'll do this. "We'll get through this, and everything will be fine in the end."

She doesn't answer, just burrows herself even deeper into his arms, like it's her haven, the only place where her demons can't reach her. And they remain standing there as the Sun rises, bringing the start of a new day.


	45. Why Did You Kiss Me?

**Why Did You Kiss Me?**

It was a minor, momentary lapse of judgement, really – nothing else. He blamed it on… Well, he blamed it on a lot of things, amongst them that she was standing really close to him, close enough that he got a whiff of her shampoo (something savory but sweet, maybe green apple?), and she was gazing up at him from under her lashes, looking innocent and coy all at once, all but daring him to do something, he swears.

And her lips looked damn kissable (kissable – is that even a word?).

So he kissed her.

Caught her face in his hands, keeping her still, then leaned in and pressed his lips against hers, soft but hungry, pleading and passionate, feeling like he could never get close enough to her. She froze for a moment; but then kissed him back with vengeance, wounding her arms around his neck and pulling him close, then opening her mouth, inviting him in.

What a kiss it was!

But then he bit into her lower lip and she moaned – and it was like he was suddenly shaken awake.

What the hell was he thinking?

He pushed her away – he missed the touch of her lips the moment they left his –, and looked down at her, panting, disoriented, and feeling overwhelmingly guilty (she just seemed confused).

"Ward, what…"

"No," he cut in. "It's just… No."

And with that, he turned around and rushed out of the cargo bay, leaving her without any further excuse or explanation.

* * *

He spent the remainder part of the day with the following things: avoiding her, lamenting on what an idiot he was, and remembering that kiss.

He did the first thing because damn, specialist or not, he was sure he just couldn't look her in the eye after the… _incident_. Good thing they were currently docking in a S.H.I.E.L.D. base near Chicago; in the massive administrative building of the base he could easily – well, not hide from her, but merely choose a position where his chance of running into her was close to zero.

As for the second thing – well, he was one, okay? Kissing her was the stupidest thing he could have done. They had a status quo to uphold – him, the S.O., she, the Rookie. Getting romantically involved would have made things terribly difficult (not to mention the protocols they would break). Not to mention that he didn't even ask for her opinion in the matter: did _she_ want to kiss _him_? (Well, based on the evidence: yes). And what about him being this straightforward? Did she like that?

And anyway, why did he have to kiss her in such an out of the blue manner? Why couldn't he had been a gentleman, and taken her out for a date first? (Because that was the least she deserved.) Damn, why was he such an idiot?

This leaves the third thing, which, honestly, was maybe the most problematic of all, because damn it, it was the best kiss of his miserable life, and he wanted to repeat it. Soon. And many times over.

All of those things presented a dilemma: act like nothing had happened, or own up to it? Both options had their pros and cons – like if he chose the latter, he'd most likely get more kisses out of it. But then again, it would mean facing Skye, which he really didn't want to do.

 _But that kiss…_

His panic over the matter slowly rose as the day ticked by. Also, the fact that no less than three secretaries informer him that a young woman who claimed to be a consultant was looking for him, not to mention all the missed calls and texts from Skye on his cell he refused to open didn't help at all.

He was at crossroads: he wanted to forget to whole incident – blame it all on his stupid lapse in judgement –, but at the same time, he wanted to repeat it.

Still, when he got back to the Bus well after hours, he still hadn't run into the girl, and he considered that a victory. Maybe the next morning, rested and more clear-head he could talk to her…

He only reached until his point in his train of thought, because meanwhile he opened his laptop, planning on taking a look at the world news before bed, only to be met with a wallpaper he definitely did not set.

First of all, because it was pink all over.

He blinked once, twice, then shook his head and made himself focus on the details. It was a photo of the front of a slightly run-down house, the wall painted pink, while the window frames were red, and there was a message in red, cut out paper letters on strings, hanging in front of the door.

He laughed out loud when he read it.

 _Why did you kiss me?_

Oh, Skye. Snarky, little hacker Skye. The girl who is too stubborn to ever give up, and intelligent enough to come up with creative ways to get her message across to him.

And he loved her for that.

Heavens, _he loved her_.

But admission of it put aside still, the question remained: what to do with the situation at hand?

Although, if he wanted to be honest with himself, he had already made his decision.

* * *

Next morning, when Skye came out of her bunk, she found a post it on the sliding door, with a simple message, one single sentence written on it in neat handwriting:

 _Why did you kiss me back?_


	46. Up in the Mountains

**Up in the Mountains**

"You know," she says softly, almost pensively, looking out of the window, "the view in Afterlife is very similar to this."

He looks at her, sighs, but doesn't say a thing, simply goes back to unpacking his bag. He knows it's similar – he's been there and seen the mountains overlooking the Inhumans' haven, the mountains Skye had moved. Only, back then, he didn't have time to marvel at it – he was too preoccupied by figuring out where the attack was coming from.

The last couple of weeks were heavy on all of them, but especially on Skye, who lost so much in the war (because that's what they are dubbing it now – the Inhuman War). She hasn't been herself ever since, not really. And even though he knows she will never be the same girl again, he just wants her to at least find a piece of her old self again. To smile and laugh and tease him again.

Going up to the mountains was his idea – and it seemed like a good idea at the time. The serenity of vast, uninhibited space, the surmountable challenge of the height, the privacy of just the two of them, spending two days without anybody bothering them… He hoped that it would help her to find some kind of closure and move forward.

Of course, he didn't count on the view, that damned view, bringing back bitter memories.

"But I think it's prettier there," she continues, her back still to him. "It's more… green. Less gray and rocky. And I kinda miss the red, too – you know, the red of the columns in the buildings? But, on the other hand… It's better to be here. I mean, I'm sure they haven't cleaned up all the mess yet. There might be…" Her voice breaks and he almost rushes to her. "There might still be blood on the pavement." She doesn't add whose blood, but she doesn't even have to – her mother's. "I really couldn't bear the sight of that."

He stands, taking a tentative step towards her.

"Skye…" he breaths. Hearing her name, she turns towards him.

It's hard to read her nowadays, which greatly upsets him – she's always worn her heart on her sleeve, which might not be the most ideal behavior for an agent, but it was so distinctly Skye that he never even tried to discourage it.

But then something sparkles in her gaze, and the corner of her mouth, barely visibly, turns upwards.

"But to be honest, the company is way better here."

He can't stop the relieved chuckle tearing free from his chest as steps to her and draws her into his embrace, pulling her close and resting his chin on the top of her head, inhaling the scent of her hair in.

She's not there yet, not even close – but she's started her journey down the path, and he'll be there all along the way to help and support her.


	47. Laments on the Couch

**Laments on the Couch (While You Were Sleeping)**

Skye fell asleep on his shoulder.

Simmons had given her the all clear to leave the med pod after the near-fatal gunshot wounds she suffered, but she was still weak and got tired easily. That's how they ended up sitting on the couch talking through strategy instead of going down to the cargo bay for actual, physical training, like she had originally wanted. Still, she fell asleep halfway through their conversation, her head resting on his shoulder.

For a couple of minutes, he contemplated waking her and sternly ordering her to go to bed. Then he switched to gently telling her to get some sleep. Then he thought about simply picking her up and carrying her to her bunk – after all, it couldn't have been good for her sleeping half on the couch, half in his lap, to where she'd migrated in her sleep.

But then he decided all against it, and simply stayed there, watching her and gently stroking her hair.

She looked so young, so innocent in her slumber – long lashes caressing her cheeks, lips slightly parted, breathing light, regular. She curled up like a tiny kitten (she was about as cute, too), and all he wanted to do…

All he wanted to do…

He closed his eyes, let his head fall back and let out a sigh. This wasn't going to end well.

All he wanted to do was to hold her close and never to let her go. He wanted to clutch her to his body, so tight that he could feel her heart beat against his. He wanted to envelop her in his arms, and protect her for all the demons of the world. He wanted to be her protector, her knight in shining armor. He wanted to keep her from harm's way, happy, safe and loved.

It was such a foreign feeling, it scared him.

How could he…?

How could he be enough? Good enough, strong enough, skilled enough?

And furthermore: could she even… love him back?

But it was foolish to think about things like that now. He knew that the storm was brewing – it wasn't long now until everything his team knew crashed and burned. Until HYDRA emerged, mostly likely blowing his cover. Until John reached his goal.

And he should have been excited about that, he knew that – they were finally getting what they'd been working from fifteen years. But he just couldn't – there was this uneasy feeling growing in the pit of his stomach, not letting him rest, urging him to do something before he lost everything.

Still, he didn't act. He just went along the plan as expected, hoping for the best, but vowing that he wouldn't let anything happen to Skye ever again. And praying that one day she'd forgive him his sins.

But until then, until the situation remained unchanged, he was content with simply serving as her pillow.


	48. Monday Morning PDA

**Monday Morning PDA**

Jemma was happy for Skye and Grant – she really was. If there were two people who deserved to be happy, it was them. But it didn't man that she always appreciated their relationship. Or, more precisely, how… straightforward they were about it.

When their team was first assembled, she would have never pegged Grant Ward as somebody who is overly into PDA – but he was, at least ever since he and Skye got together he was, and Skye's natural exhibitionism was only fuel to the fire. Jemma couldn't even count how many times she had caught them in compromising positions in parts of the base that _were supposed to be communal_. (Not to mention that she was half sure that they had defiled the couch in the lounge. She didn't want to think about it.)

So when they went away on an impromptu vacation for the weekend Jemma all but let out a relieved sigh. She loved them to bits, but she really needed a day or two when she didn't have to worry about accidentally walking in on them doing… Well, doing things that were not beneficial to Coulson's blood pressure.

But, of course, they proved to be even worse when they got back.

It was Monday morning, early Monday morning, Jemma wasn't even really awake yet, Skye and Grant hadn't been back to the base for a total of twelve hours, and they were already being… awfully cute. Like, almost too cute for her to stomach them this early – especially before her morning coffee.

They were leaning against the counter, with Grant's back to her and Skye standing between him and the cupboard, stealing kisses and whispering to each other, seemingly not even registering Jemma in the room. Jemma snorted into her mug, but still watched them kind of mesmerized as they rested their foreheads together.

She was half-torn between leaving the galley and keeping everybody else away so they could have their moment, and telling them to get a room, because even her patience was finite.

Jemma took a sip from her coffee as Grant leaned in once again, stealing a kiss. They were being unusually cheery, she thought, ever since they had gotten back. Sure, she hadn't had the chance to really talk with Skye the previous night to ask her about their little weekend getaway, but it must have been really good if they were still this giggly about it.

And she was happy for them (and she wanted to know the juicy details). But if she had to see Grant Ward's tongue one more time this morning, then…

 _Oh, it's just fabulous_ , she exclaimed internally as Grant suddenly grabbed Skye by her ass and lifted her until her face was even a little higher than his, and her legs instinctively wrapped around his waist. This was it – the end of her patience. There were things that simply shouldn't happen in places where people go to _eat_.

Jemma put down her mug – maybe with a little bit more force than necessary –, stood up, and was just about to march over to them, when – when a flash of light caught her eye.

She stopped, blinking.

No, it was still there.

Then she squealed.

The next moment she rushed to Skye and Grant – who had pulled apart hearing her squeal –, and threw her arms around them.

"Congratulations!" she said to the slightly startled pair, then pulled away slightly, but only so she could grab Skye's left hand – where the engagement ring gleamed. "Oh, Skye…" Looking at it now, Jemma didn't even know how she could have missed it – the diamond was massive. And it also explained why they were suddenly so all over each other. "It's beautiful!" She hugged Skye again, while being marginally aware of Grant taking a step back and looking down at them with a smile on his face. "I want to know everything!" she continued, holding Skye at arm's length. "How did he propose? Was it romantic? How did she react?" The last one was addressed to Grant.

"Jemma, Jemma!" Skye hushed her smiling. "Keep your voice down a bit, will you? It's supposed to be – well, not a secret…" she glanced back at her boyfriend – no, at her fiancé, Jemma still had to get used to the idea of it. "But we kinda want to keep it quiet, just until we can announce it properly to everybody. Can you keep it a secret for a while? Just, let's say, until tonight? I'll tell you everything in exchange."

Jemma took a calming breath (it didn't really work; it was just way too exciting), then nodded.

"I'll do my best."

(Half the base knew about their engagement by lunch.)


	49. On the Top of the Ferris Wheel

**On the Top of the Ferris Wheel**

Skye has never thought that she would ever come to see this: Grant Ward genuinely surprising her not once, but twice in the span of seventy-two hours.

First by asking her out.

Then by choosing a freaking amusement park as the location of their date.

A honest to god, completely old school amusement park, complete with a creepy haunted house and a giant Ferris wheel and vendors selling funnel cake and cotton candy from little stalls with striped awnings.

She loved the date from the moment it started – and it didn't hurt either that he was being freakishly perfect.

He was game for technically everything. She wanted to take a ride on the roller coaster? Okay, no problem. Try out the haunted house? Sure (he didn't even mock her when she got startled and suddenly grabbed his hand, only held her close until they got out). Have hot-dogs and funnel cake for dinner? Why not? (Also, he actually laughed when she started playing with her food, trying to stuff some into his mouth.)

And he bought her balloons. He brought her freaking, floating, helium filled balloons in silly, cheery colors, with vibrantly colored ribbons tied to them. She almost teared up then – nobody had ever bought her balloons before. (She almost kissed him then; just almost.)

The evening, and with it their date was drawing close to the end; there was only one thing to do before going home back to the Bus, one thing they deliberately left to the end: the Ferris wheel.

The sun had already set, and the street lamps in the park and out on the streets were turned on; tiny specks of light, thousands and thousands of far-away fireflies, at least that's what they seemed to be from the height. They were almost to the top now, her balloons tied to her wrist as she gripped the railing. They sat in silence, looking ahead instead of at each other – and she suddenly felt an urge to laugh, because it struck her how much this was like the first date of the teenagers.

Inexperience, even some blushing, the clichéd place and activities, but the complete feeling of elation, as if it was The. Best. Day. Of. Her. Life, and the giddiness, oh, the giddiness… And now this: not daring to look at the other in fear of doing something embarrassing – like kissing, although it was what they both wanted.

A tiny chuckle just escaped from between her lips in the end.

"What?" Grant turned towards her in an instant. "Are you okay?"

She couldn't keep herself from chuckling again.

"Sure," she said, then continued, deciding to go for being coy. "I was just thinking about how you want to kiss me."

"Sorry?" He leaned back a little. She couldn't have been completely sure in the poor lighting, but it almost seemed like he blushed – like a little boy, with his hand caught in the cookie jar.

"It's okay," she teased, but still not moving towards him. "It's a perfectly 'first date' thing to do – kissing, thinking about kissing… I would honestly feel violated if you didn't want to kiss me. I mean, this whole date would feel kind of unfinished without it."

His body language slowly got more relaxed as she spoke. He leaned closer, a small smile hiding in the corner of his mouth.

"So do _you_ want to kiss me?" he asked, his tone matching hers.

She smirked – he was getting the hang of it.

"Well, I would actually prefer if you initiated it, y'know, being traditional and all," she explained, moving closer to him and licking her lips as in invitation. "But if you don't move soon, I'm afraid I'll have to take things into my own hands." To illustrate this, she raised her hands from the railing.

"We wouldn't want that," he said with something akin to the mixture of amusement and desire flashing in his eyes; then he grabbed her wrists and pulled her close, one hand slipping into her hair as he kissed her – right on the top of the Ferris wheel.

As clichéd as it is, it was her best first kiss.


	50. Early Morning Assault

**Early Morning Assault**

He is awake the moment the lock of the bedroom door clicks, but he stays completely still, only letting the corner of his mouth twitch into a smile as he listens to the tiny footfalls echo softly in the room.

Haylie is about as subtle as her mother.

He can barely keep himself from chuckling when the mattress dips next to his hip as Haylie climbs into the bed. There's some shifting around, and then the next moment there's a tiny, soft, warm hand on his cheek, stroking him gently.

"Daddy," Haylie whispers, and when he doesn't react, she leans a little closer. "Daddy. Daddy," she repeats a little louder each time.

 _One_ , he counts silently, _two, three…_

"Arrgh!" he roars suddenly, rising from the bed and catching Haylie by the waist. He throws the squealing child to the mattress and starts tickling her. "I got you, and I'll never let you go!" he says triumphantly, then blows a raspberry on Haylie's stomach, eliciting another round laughter from the five year old.

"You two are terrible," he hears from the other side of the bed; turning towards it, his eyes meet Skye's gaze, as his wife lies on her side, propped up on one elbow, slowly shaking her head. He gives her a rueful little smile – meanwhile still tickling Haylie. Of course he woke her – he didn't exactly mean to, but at the same time he doesn't really feel guilty, because instead of looking annoyed and pulling the covers over her head in protest, Skye's reaching for her phone so she can snap a few pictures of them.

But Skye's not the only one who's been woken by their playful sparring match.

"Daddy?" Ada says uncertainly, peering into the bedroom, while clutching her stuffed monkey to her chest. When she finally sees him, her eyes go wide. "Daddy!" she shrieks, then runs to the bed, launching herself into his arms.

He lets go of Haylie to catch his younger daughter, who throws her arms around his neck immediately, nuzzling her face against his neck.

"Hi there, chipmunk," he says, stroking her dark hair and inhaling the baby-scent in.

"I miss't you," she says with an adorable lisp, holding him even tighter.

He lets out a sigh; he was away on a mission for almost a week, and only got back the previous night, well after midnight, when the girls had already been asleep for hours, so all he got was a fleeting glance at them as they slept. (Skye told him that they wanted to stay up to wait for him – Ada fell out of the competition early on, falling asleep not long after eight, but Haylie threw a tantrum when she was first told she couldn't stay up until he got home. After some crying they struck a deal that if Haylie behaved, she could stay up half an hour more. She was out like the light in ten minutes and had to be carried to bed.)

Heavens, he missed them like crazy, and finally having them in his arms, seeing their little, mischievous smiles and feeling their soft baby-smell was the best feeling in the word. Moments like this, he never wanted to leave again.

A couple of minutes of cuddling later – during which Skye, too, ended up with her arms around his waist and her chin on his shoulder –, he basically shakes the girls off, and moves to stand up.

"What do you angels say about some breakfast? Pancakes are okay?"

"Yay! Pa'cakes!" Ada laughs, clapping her tiny hands together until Skye catches her under the arms and pulls her close, pressing a kiss against the top her head. Grant's heart melts a little at the sight.

"You can stay," Skye tells him, throwing the covers back. "Rest, you must still be tired. I'll handle it."

"No, I'll do it. I want to," he reassured her, then turns towards his daughters. "Who wants to help daddy?" Four hands fly up. "Okay, race to the kitchen! Who gets there first?" Haylie and Ada jump out of the bed in an instant, running for the door laughing. He watches them leave with a smitten smile on his face, then with them gone, he turns back toward Skye for a moment before he'd follow them. He crawls across the mattress to her and gives her a lingering kiss. "Really, stay just here. I missed them, I need some daddy-time," he tells her and kisses her again, before adding with a grin, "I want more."

Skye's so blissed out, it takes her a couple of seconds to get what he's saying.

"Very funny," she says, giving him an amused smile.

"I'm not joking," He pecks her lips, once, twice. "I seriously want another baby."

She lets out a half-amused, half-annoyed sigh, then playfully knocks on the top of his head.

"I'm honestly starting to worry that you were knocked around a little too much during this last op."

He laughs and is just about to answer when an impatient "Daddy, are you coming?" is heard from the door behind him. He hangs his head and chuckles to himself.

"A moment, princess." He looks into Skye's eyes, trying to convey how serious he is about the topic he's just brought up in one single glance. She just shakes her head, laughing.

"No," she tells him, maybe with a little less conviction than she meant to.

But he just grins and winks at her.

"It's okay," he tells her, before giving her one last, quick kiss. "I'll wear you down yet." Then he gets out of the bed, picks up Haylie at the door, and playfully leaning towards her shoulder, as if he wanted to bite her, he carries the laughing child out of the room.

Skye sighs, then falls back to her pillow with a huff. He will might as well actually wear her down if he keeps doing this.

Whom is she kidding? It's just the matter of time before he gets her to agree. And she'll be happy to do it – damn him.


	51. Time Flies

**Time Flies**

Tinkling laughter floats through the air, making Skye turn her head towards the source of it.

"You are crazy."

"I can do this."

"Doesn't change the fact."

"Just don't let me fall back."

"You are lucky I love you."

"Love ya right back, little sis."

Skye just shakes her head at the antics of her daughters, smiling, but doesn't say a word; she just lets the scene unfold.

The girls are about thirty feet from her, messing around on the sandy beach; both of them are wearing light, summer clothes – Haylie is down to her bikini, Ada has pulled over a loose sundress over hers. Their long hair is flowing freely, a little ruffled, matted in some places because of the salt. Their skin is sun-kissed, and they are laughing, happy, carefree.

Ada is sitting in the sand cross-legged, looking up at her sister with an expectant smile. Haylie is standing, facing her; she takes a couple of steps back to get to the proper distance from Ada, then raises her arms to the air and draws a leg up to gain momentum. The next moment she is throwing herself forward gracefully, hands in the sand and feet in the air. There's an uncertain moment when she reaches vertical position when Skye's afraid for a fraction of a second that she'll tip over and fall, but in the end Haylie manages to stay erect.

Skye chuckles, hiding her mouth behind her hand as a wave of nostalgia hits her.

She remembers the first time they brought Haylie to the beach – she was just learning to walk, and she gripped Grant's hands as they stood at the edge of the water, letting the waves wash their feet. She loved it so much, shrieking with delight whenever the water touched her.

It seems almost impossible how much time has passed ever since – Haylie's just turned seventeen (her once tiny baby is now a good four inches taller than her), and Ada is going to be fifteen this fall. They are their own persons, beautiful and kind and smart. Haylie, her fast-thinking hothead, who just doesn't get the concept of "no" and "impossible." And Ada, gentle little Ada, always calm and considerate, sometimes sitting at the piano for hours.

After keeping in position for a couple of seconds, Haylie is slowly letting herself back to the ground, letting her legs fall back, her back arching into a perfect bridge. Ada watches her with an amused smile on her face, reaching out to grab the foot coming down first, and helping it slowly to the ground. Once all limbs in the sand, she stops for a moment once again, then takes a deep breath and flexes her abdominal muscles. Skye holds her breathe as Haylie slowly raises her hands from the ground, standing up – it's not as graceful as it could be, but it still is a nice accomplishment.

It takes Haylie a couple of seconds to finish the form and stand up straight, albeit in a little uncertain fashion, almost losing her footing. But when she is done with it, she grins triumphantly, then gives Ada a little bow, who awards the stunt with a grin and a little clap.

The next moment Haylie smirks mischievously, then throws herself to her sister's neck, tackling her to the ground. Skye sees her second born's face the moment before the attack happens – Ada realizes what's about to happen, but has absolutely no time to escape. The scene unfolding in front of her, the two girls rolling around in the sand, then running into the water, splashing at each other, makes her laugh out loud.

"What have I missed?" Grant asks, sitting down next to her on the blanket.

"Nothing of importance," she tells him, leaning against his side. "Just our daughters being themselves."

She can almost physically feel the pride radiating from her husband as he looks at the girls.

"We did good with them," he says, just as much to himself as to her. "Raised them well, right?"

She presses a kiss against his cheek.

"That we did," she says in the same moment as one of the girls call for the distance, tone clearly seeking for justice made, " _Da-ad_!"


	52. Couple's Costumes

**A/N:** I just couldn't resist placing it in my Haylie/Ada verse. I hope it's okay :)

* * *

 **Couple's Costumes**

Seeing Skye sitting cross-legged on the bed with the open laptop in front of her as he comes out of the bathroom in the evening is not a strange sight by far; most nights when they don't share a shower, this is how he finds her. And yet, there's something in her posture tonight that makes him ask, "What are you doing?"

Hearing his voice, Skye looks up – her gaze darkens a bit as she takes him in, still a little wet, clad in nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist –, and says, almost nonchalantly, "I'm looking for Halloween costumes for us," and then she is back to her search.

Now, normally he wouldn't think much of it – Skye is seemingly always on the Internet, looking for something – but the word _us_ catches his attention, making his throat tighten, because as much as he loves her, putting on some silly couple's costume for the occasion of what, in his opinion, is the most immature holiday, is not high on his list of priorities.

Due to how busy they were this time a year ago, with setting up the Playground and everything, he was spared of this, all of this – no celebration, no party, no costumes. At first he thought it would be the case this year as well. Then of course Fitz or Hunter or some other _genius_ came up with the idea that they should at least have a party to boost team morale, and of course Skye backed them up. But still, it seemed like he could escape the couple's costume, as Skye said she'd find something sexy to wear just for him – which was completely okay with him.

Of course she had to change her mind…

"I thought you already had the costume picked out," he says cautiously, going for the soft approach.

Skye makes a face and gives a little, negating sound without looking at him.

"I did. But it simply doesn't feel appropriate anymore. I just don't want to dress slutty… now."

Grant lets out a resigned sigh, but can't stop the soft, barely-there smile from appearing on his face, because he knows exactly what she is talking about.

She is pregnant – it was completely unexpected, and terribly ill-timed, but damn, they are having a baby. And although it is not noticeable yet – she is barely seven weeks along –, he understands where her sudden change of mind is coming from.

Running his fingers through his still damp hair, he gently shakes his head, then walks to the bed.

"Scoot over," he tells her, then settles down next to her when she makes room for him. "What do you have in mind?"

She smiles brilliantly at him.

"Something not too flashy or even sexy, but something witty. Something that would make people smile?" She explains. "And I think I've found something. Look," she says, clicking on something. "What do you think?"

Looking at the picture that pops up on the screen, he swallows. Hard.

"It's… something," he forces out. "It's rather suggestive," he adds after a second.

The costumes themselves are rather simple, and not sexy in the conventional sense, he'll give her that, but… _Oh, come on!_

Her big find is a big rectangular… something for the woman, almost like an oversized dress, black in color with the print of two power outlets on the front – one over the breasts, the other over the hip area. The costume's other half is, naturally, the plug – simple black pants and a black shirt, but with a white, box-like thing, imitating a plug, right over the groin (that, plus some cord added for good measure).

Not exactly his dream Halloween costume.

"Yeah, I know. That's why I like it – and it's really fitting, don't you think?" she asks, looking at him, smiling. "And it's funny. I like it."

There's a kind of finality in her voice he doesn't exactly like.

"Are you really sure? I mean, there must be other great costumes out there…" he tries to reason with her, reaching for the touchpad to click on something else, but Skye grabs his wrist.

"Grant," she mewls, suddenly almost overselling it. "I really, really like it." Then she places her hand on her still flat stomach, caressing it gently. Oh, no – she's not going to play _that_ card… "And I'm carrying your child."

Yes, she does play that card.

Grant takes a deep breath and hangs his head, defeated.

"Okay," he gives in. "Let's do this. But only because I love you. Both of you."

"Aw," Skye coos, rising to her knees and leaning close to him so she can plant a kiss on his cheek. "Who would have thought that you'd turn out to be a complete softy?" The second kiss lands on his mouth, and the laptop and the ridiculous costume are soon forgotten (but not as much as he could escape wearing it).

(He is not amused when he finds out during the party that it was all a bet between Skye and Lance to see if she could get him wear the most outrageous costume she can find.)


	53. Of Heatwaves and Stubborn Babies

**Of Heatwaves and Stubborn Babies**

"You know, baby girl," Skye's voice drifted towards him from the couch, where she lay with her feet propped up, clad only in her underwear, caressing her round belly. "It's okay to come a little early. Nobody would be mad at you, really."

Grant let out a silent laugh, but didn't pause in his task of scooping ice-cream into two bowls.

Skye's pregnancy has been, so far, completely smooth and free of any complication, and for that he was eternally grateful, but still, with only two weeks left until her due date this heat wave – that was so uncharacteristic for May – has been really draining her energies. For the last couple of days, she just hasn't been able to cool down and feel comfortable, no matter what they tried.

But it she didn't let it dampen her mood – she tried to bear it with good humor, even though Grant could see the strain the heat had been putting on her.

But no, she didn't complain, not even when she felt like she could barely move and practically lived in her underwear. Instead, she tried to reason with their unborn daughter, urging her to hurry up – and that he just couldn't stand listening to without grinning like an idiot.

"How are the negotiations going?" he asked with a smile, handing her one of the bowls. She thanked him, but then made a face at him.

"She's being stubborn – she even kicked me in protest."

He chuckled at her indignant tone as he sat down next to her and placed his hand on her belly. And really, he could feel a strong kick against his palm.

"Then it seems like she's taking after her mother, at least as far as stubbornness is concerned," he teased, rubbing her bump. Skye stuck her tongue out at him.

"You try existing in this weather with an overgrown watermelon for your stomach," she said, then took a spoonful of ice-cream into her mouth. "Hm… it's heavenly!" she moaned, her eyes fluttering closed, eliciting a chuckle from Grant.

"But I guess I can understand her," he spoke after a while, breaking the silence. "She's nice and comfortable inside, it's warm…"

"Not that much warmer than outside here…" she added mumbling.

"…She can get any food she wants, and if she feels uncomfortable, she just has to give a kick to protest, and the situation is already amended. I wouldn't hurry to get out if I were her, either."

"Yes," Skye agreed, dipping a finger into her ice-cream, and smearing it on the tip of his nose. "We both know how much you like to be inside of me."

Grant laughed.

"I think there's no point in trying to deny that," he said, wiping the ice-cream off and licking it from his finger. He saw Skye's eyes darken at the sight of it, and he just couldn't stop himself from giving her a little wink.

"You know," she said after a beat, taking another bite from the cold treat, trying and failing to sound nonchalant, "I've read somewhere that sex could jump start labor." She licked a speck of ice-cream from her upper lip, the pink tip of her tongue visible just a moment longer than necessary. "Maybe we could give it a try?"

He smirked at her in response, then leaned close and kissed her.

"Well, it does worth a try," then moved to pluck the bowl from her hand, but she pulled it away, protecting it.

"Hey, I'm still going to finish it first!"

He could do nothing but laugh.


	54. By the Poolside

**A/N:** Sorry for the lack of update yesterday – I was at a con, and while I thought we would be back around eight in the evening, I got home after eleven pm, completely exhausted, so I didn't trust myself to write. (I swear I'll make it up – I wanted to it today, but life had other plans. But look out, one of these days – hopefully tomorrow – you'll be getting a double update!)

* * *

 **By the Poolside**

"If anybody needs me, I'll be down at the pool" was practically the first thing Skye said after she got her hotel key card, but before she stormed out of the lobby, making Grant chuckle in spite of himself.

But, after all, she was right – overnights still weren't standard, so whenever they got to spend the night at a hotel, just like now, it was the best if they got the most out of the opportunity. And if "the most" meant swimming around the pool a little bit – especially this late into the evening, when it was surely mostly deserted –, then it was the thing she should go for.

A little while later, after he unpacked his bag for the night and put on some clean clothes, he went down to the pool as well, just to see what she was up to. (So she amused him. She was warm and entertaining and completely unpredictable, and he might have found it alluring.)

And sure, she was there, alone in the pool area, paddling around in the hotel's pool awkwardly, like a puppy first trying its paw at swimming. He just couldn't stop the amused little chuckle that escaped from between his lips at the sight of her. Hearing his voice, she stopped abruptly and turned to face him, hands on her hips – although the effect wasn't the same with the water distorting her image.

"Hey," she called to him, her head held high proudly. She was wearing a simple bikini, her long hair almost black and completely flat from the water, and with her make up gone, the oriental slant of her eyes seemed more pronounced, and at the same time, she looked so much younger. "I'm sure they taught you how to swim at the super secret spy academy, but the nuns weren't so throughout. You try learning how to swim on your own."

"Sorry, sorry," he said smiling, holding up his hands in a placating gesture as he sat down on the edge of one of the lounge chairs. "I didn't mean to be rude – it's just you're cute."

Skye's eyes went a little wide as she floated over to the edge of the pool, resting her elbows on the tiles.

"Wow, Robot – I didn't think that the word "cute" would be in your dictionary," she teased, her legs never stopping under the water.

Grant shrugged.

"I think I'm just full of surprises."

Skye's eyes sparkled at this, and he knew he was in trouble – they were entering a strange and dangerous territory, something they have been skirting for the last couple of months, but never dared to enter. It wasn't just simple banter anymore they engaged in during training, because it wasn't the cargo hold, and FitzSimmons weren't only steps away – it was just the two of them on a balmy summer night, talking by the pool.

It wasn't banter – it was flirting, and he didn't know how he wanted to feel about it.

"Oh, really?" Skye asked, the pink tip of her tongue visible just for a second. "And what kind of surprises?"

He chuckled, letting his head fall back a little.

"If I told you them, they wouldn't be surprises anymore, would they?"

"But I wanna know them," she said with a smirk, looking up at him from under hooded eyes. "You wouldn't deny me this, would you?"

She was playing coy, and damn, she was playing it well, and it was doing things to him he wasn't proud of.

Accompanied with a sigh, he stood up and grabbed her towel from the back of the longue chair.

"I think it's time you climbed out," he told her, stepping closer. "The chlorine is starting to mess with you brain."

She stuck her tongue out at him, but reached for the offered hand nonetheless – which, in hindsight, should have been a warning sign. Because when did Skye do anything she was told to do without some kind of commentary?

The moment their hands clasped together, she pulled at him with all her strength. If he had had a moment to see the situation a little clearer, he could have had avoided it, but with mesmerized by a pair big, brown eyes, he didn't have this headway – so before he had time to comprehend what was happening, he was falling headfirst into the pool, clothes and shoes on, and the hotel key card in his pocket.

When he broke the surface a moment later, sputtering water and shaking droplets out of his hair, she was already sitting on the edge, grinning at him.

"Why did you do that?" he asked, half annoyed and half amused, brushing dripping wet hair out of his eyes.

Skye kicked into the water, splashing him again.

"Because you didn't answer my question," she answered in a cheery tone. "And because I wanted to see how would you look in a wet shirt."

"Oh, really?" _Well, two can play the game…_ "In that case…" And with that he lunged forward, caught her ankles, and pulled the squealing Skye back into the water, trying to push her under.

So their relationship was evolving. Did it scare him? Definitely. Did he want to stop it, and leave everything the way they were? Some days yes, but in moments like this?

Moments like this he could barely wait to see what the future had in store for them.


	55. About Happiness

**A/N:** Please note that there's double update today – it's 2/1

* * *

 **About Happiness**

When Grant was nine, he had to write an essay for school entitled "I think happiness is…" He remembers sitting over the empty sheet of paper for an hour, having absolutely no clue what to write. After all, what was happiness? He just couldn't pinpoint out one single event or occurrence that that evoked a strong enough feeling in him that he could have called happiness.

In the end, he wrote things about how happiness was being good enough, not embarrassing your family, and being safe. He also included that it was playing in his room – he didn't add that it was because Christian left him alone there, because that would have fallen under the category of "embarrassing the family."

"You don't talk about your problems, you deal with them," his mother used to say, glass of brandy in her hand.

He got a B minus. The teacher wrote that he had very mature ideas, but his sentence structure was weak, and the text felt forced, rushed – she advised him to spend more time on writing a piece in the future.

He thought about this homework a couple of times in the following years – in the woods, at the academy, while on mission –, and he came to the conclusion none of the people he met, the places he'd been to, or the things he experienced, made him happy. That feeling was still foreign to him. But he made peace with this, as much as he could – he reasoned with himself that some people just weren't destined for happiness, and he was one of them. And maybe after all he'd done, he didn't even deserve it.

(Helping John and repaying him was more important than chasing happiness, anyway.)

But in the end, he did find it – he is past thirty when it happens, and the elation he feels every single moment of every single day completely astonishes him, and sometimes he still feels like he doesn't deserve it, but he is happy.

If he had to write that that essay – the one that caused him so much headache at nine – now, he would go somehow like this:

Happiness is having a messy house with boxes and bags and things you have no idea why you have and where they come from. It's a girl with wide, dark eyes and a joyous smile, always teasing you. It's fleeting touches and stolen kisses. It's having a nap in the middle of the day amongst the mess. It's curling up together on the couch, because there's no bed yet. It's holding her close and never letting go, and listening to her breathe as her face is nuzzled against his chest. It's her arm around his middle, and his leg thrown over her waist, anchoring each other. It's an unruly shelter dog, as lost and in need of a family as they were once, climbing onto the back of the couch and looking down at them, her tail wiggling.

It's bad takeout eaten in candlelight – because they have no lightbulbs yet – on the floor – because they still have to buy a table. It's talking well into the night about the future, making silly plans, like putting up a swing in the backyard and painting the living room turquoise and planting a tree and filling the house with children's laughter. It's making love long and slow in the soft pre-dawn light, whispering sentimental nonsense.

It's having friends over, being loud and making jokes – pranking, and laughing like crazy when somebody gets drenched or drops something on their foot. It's sharing beers and old stories, sitting on the porch instead of putting furniture together. It's having her in his lap, leaning against him, drawing nonsensical patterns on his chest, her eyelids dropping, but still smiling about some silly anecdote.

If he had to write that essay now, he would get an A, he's sure.


	56. Priorities

**A/N:** Please note that there is a double update today – it's 2/2

* * *

 **Priorities**

Priorities change – it's a well-known and accepted fact, even amongst specialists.

Sometimes they can change even during a mission – you go in with the objective of getting a, let's say, scientist out, then halfway through you get the order to leave the person, and bring the tech only. It's not something anybody likes, but it happens.

Other times priorities – mostly personal priorities – change with time. Sometimes it happens over the course of months, sometimes even years, and sometimes it's instant, fueled by a single event.

For the longest time, Grant Ward was sure that he was immune to these kinds of whims – he was positive that his goal was obvious and his life constant, so he didn't expect any kind of change. Of course then a girl with big brown eyes stormed into his life, turning everything upside down, and now he has to smile at his own naivety.

Back in the day, for example, the first thing he liked to do after a post-mission briefing was getting rid of his overly formal suit, knock bad a scotch and go to sleep as soon as possible, so he might be able to catch a full eight hours. Now it's a completely different story.

He's fidgety during briefing, barely able to wait until he can leave – he never used to be like that before; he used to be cool and calm, completely collected. He still tries to keep up the pretense of this, but Coulson is hard to fool – he only smiles at him in a way that eerily reminds Grant of a schoolteacher (or maybe a father) before letting him go with the condition that he turns in a detailed report within forty-eight hours.

Once he is out of the director's office, he all but sprints down the stairs to the living quarters – but his goal is not his own room.

He opens the door slowly, quietly, not to wake up the possibly sleeping occupant. The room is dim as he steps inside, a single lamp giving soft, ambient light, but it's enough – and as soon as he lays eyes on her, he breaks into a brilliant smile.

Four days without her were four days too long.

"Hello there, princess," he says softly, standing by the crib, looking down at the baby lying inside it.

Haylie's not asleep after all, but is looking up at him, gurgling happily, pushing her tiny fist into her mouth. Babbling nonsense to her he reaches into the crib and gently lifts her out, cradling her against his chest, her warm weight and soft baby smell relaxing him instantly.

"Daddy missed you so much, sweetheart" he tells her, rocking her as he walks to the armchair on the other side of the room. "I hope you were a good girl for mommy."

"Oh, she was," answers a sleepy voice from the direction of the door. "A real angel."

Skye's standing there, bleary eyed and hair ruffled, wearing flannel PJ pants and one of his T-shirts that is way too big on her.

"I heard you on the baby monitor," she explains as she walks into the room. "And to be honest, I want to be a little mad at you for not coming to me first," she continues, setting by his side in the armchair, cuddling to him. "But I can't."

"I didn't want to wake you," he says apologetically, although he can already see Skye's eyelids dropping as she rests her head on his shoulder, one finger stroking their daughter's hand absent-mindedly. He can imagine how draining it must have been for her to take care of Haylie alone while he was away, and he silently vows to take over as much of her care as he can now that he's home, so Skye can rest.

"It's okay," she says, her words almost blurring together. "I never sleep well when you're away anyway. So I'm glad you're back" The last part is barely intelligible, then her eyes finally close and her breathing evens out – she is asleep within a minute, just like Haylie.

And with his two favorite girls in the whole world safely sleeping in his arms, Grant knows with complete certainty that nothing ever will be more important to him than them.


	57. To and Fro

**A/N:** Continuation of #45 Why Did You Kiss Me?

* * *

 **To and Fro**

 _Why did you kiss me back?_ , read the note in his neat handwriting, almost making her laugh out loud. Because damn him and his adorable awkwardness when it came to human relationships – did he really have to ask this?

It seemed like he did.

She quickly made herself a mug of coffee, then sprinted back to her bunk, eager to reply to his message.

Hacking into his laptop was easy – finding a picture to set as his wallpaper was not. In the end, she didn't even find one that was funny enough and conveyed the right message, so she simply picked out a background of pink roses (because why not? Go big or forget that whole thing, that was her philosophy), and wrote on it in black: _You have to ask? Maybe you should kiss yourself, and then you'd know the answer._

She heard him laugh out loud in his bunk about an hour later, assuring her that he got her message.

She had training with him that morning, but they didn't talk about their little exchange (or the kiss, that spectacular kiss the day before), only did business as usual, with their customary little snark, and the only thing that hinted that something had changed in their relationship was a little, significant glance they shared as he checked her hand wrappings. But when she got back to her bunk later, there it was – a post-it stuck to her door. She didn't even read it at first, just plucked it from the door, held it close to her chest and ducked into her bunk before anyone could have seen her. Only when the door slid closed behind her, did she dare to take a look at it.

 _I'd rather kiss you (if that's okay?)_

If anybody asks nothing like this happened, but when she read the note, she flung herself on her bed, burying her face in her pillow and letting out a girlish squeal (honestly, she was no preteen anymore – she shouldn't have gotten so worked up over a crush).

But really, thinking with a clearer head about it… He was adorable, she thought, pondering over the note. First he stated confidently that he wanted to kiss her (good; so he could flirt if he wanted to), then added self-consciously that he'd only do that with her consent, which was about the cutest and most gallant thing a guy has ever done for her (gosh, she really needed to find some better guys to date).

(Like Ward. He seemed like a good candidate.)

Too excited to bother about petty things like hacking into his laptop once again, she simply picked up her phone and fired him a quick text.

 _Name a time and place._

And he did. Within five minutes.

* * *

Three days later, on the morning following a spectacular first date (her best so far, if she could say that), she found another note, this time attached to the foot of her hula girl figurine:

 _When we first met I honestly had no idea that you would be so important to me._

And a smiley. A freaking smiley. A colon and a bracket making a sketchy, smiling face. Drawn by none other than Grant Ward.

Barely keeping herself from giggling like a schoolgirl, she hid her grin behind the palm of her hand, looking down at the note.

"Well, look at that," she whispered to herself. "In the end I'll end up frying his circuits."


	58. Love Me Like You Never Loved Before

I know it's been a while since I updated this story, and for this, I'm sorry – but as compensation, I published a new story today, set in my Haylie/Ada verse, titled Out of the Loop, which I strongly advise you to check out :P Also, in my defense, a lot has been happening in my life lately, and not everything is happy – there are things going on in my life right now that are leaving me emotionally drained, so please, be patient with me. This being said, I do plan on getting back to the daily update schedule from today – and what's the better way to celebrate it than some smut? :)

* * *

 **Love Me Like You Never Loved Before**

Before Skye, Grant had never been overly into making love. Sure, he loved sex, he loved women – he is a red-blooded, healthy man, after all. But it had always been kind of a chase for personal satisfaction rather than an act of giving pleasure and receiving it in return; but at least he did choose his partners accordingly, and always made sure that they reached the peak of pleasure as well – it was a matter of pride, really. But then that was it – no sentiments, no whispered sweet nothings, no gentle caresses, just a race for pleasure. John had always taught him that women were only a means to an end, after all.

But Skye… Skye is different. She is a goddess among men. She is to be worshipped.

And worship her he does – every single day.

Like when he finds her in the bathroom at the end of a long day – fresh out of the shower, her hair still damp, her body wrapped up in a towel, putting her razor away, having just finished shaving.

She is just too divine, he can't help himself.

So he sneaks up behind her, puts his arms around her waist, pulls her close and attacks her neck with kisses in a loving assault. She jerks at first, startled, then melts into his embrace, leaning against him and letting out a content sigh as he licks at her pulse point. He needs no more encouragement – letting her go for a moment, he turns her towards himself, then picks her up, making sure that her legs wrap around his waist – her bare, hot core pressing against his denim-covered groin –, and carries her out of there, into the bedroom.

There he places her on the bed, gently, like she's made of glass. She lies there, relaxed, but greedy, a flame in her eyes that tells him she can't wait for the things she knows are coming.

His heartrate picks up and his hands almost tremble as he reaches for the knot that secures her towel, then unwraps her, like she is a carefully wrapped present on Christmas morning, spreading the two flaps of the towel over the bedsheets.

"You are so beautiful," he breathes as he sits back, marveling at her body – the shapely thighs and the toned stomach and the perfect, round breasts with the dark nipples standing at attention in the relative coolness of the room. He can't help it – before she could react to the praise, he dives in, locking his lips around her right nipple, sucking on it, while his hand finds the other breast, kneading it gently, feeling its weight in his palm, making her gasp and writhe under him, squeezing her legs together.

He knows without touching her that she's already wet and aching for him.

He can't help but teasing her a bit longer.

Skye whines when he pulls away, leaving her nipple red and glistening from saliva. He doesn't go far – only reaches for the nightstand, where he knows she keeps a bottle of lotion. He grabs it, squeezes a small amount into his palm – the sweet scent enveloping him right away –, then reaches for her leg, and starts rubbing the lotion into her skin. He continues methodically, switching to her other leg, then to her stomach, massaging her breasts and shoulders and arms as he goes, never touching her where she needs him the most – he has other plans for that –, but he feels her going boneless, all the stress and tension of the day leaving her body under his tender, arousing care.

By the time he finishes with this, she is completely relaxed and high-strung at the same time – her eyelids dropping, but her pupils wide, her body limp, but the scent of her arousal evident in the air.

It's time to make her fly.

With a mischievous smile on his lips, he kneels on the edge of the bed, spreads her legs and places them on his shoulders – there's absolutely no resistance –, then leans in, and presses his lips against her core.

She gasps and jerks and moans, encouraging him to go on.

Much like making love, he wasn't keen on going down on a woman before – he just didn't see the point –, but with Skye, it more than worth it.

Freshly shaved, she's smooth as velvet, hot and wet, her juices salty-sweet on his tongue as he licks and sucks and thrust his tongue deep into her. She lets out a little scream as his teeth graze over her clit, then moans loudly as his tongue starts playing with the little nub.

He just loves how responsive she is – how she grinds her core against his face, moving rhythmically as if she couldn't get close enough to him; how her hand first finds his head, her fingers sliding into his dark hair, before she reaches out, searching for his hand, not giving up until their fingers are interlocked; how she gets louder and louder, moaning and whining and breathing out his name, demanding more.

Soon, he knows that she's close – her body tensing up, her hand holding his mercilessly, her core twitching under his lips. He gives her one last deliberate lick, rubbing her clit with the tip of his tongue before thrusting it into her, and the she breaks, crying out, her spine arching from the bed and walls spasming and her juices erupting into his mouth.

He helps her down from her high with small, gentle, teasing licks, until she lies still again, panting, her skin glistening with sweat, the sweet scent of the post-orgasmic haze enveloping her form.

He pushes himself away from her only then, her juices dripping from his chin – not that he cares. As absurd it is, he is still completely clothed; he starts undressing now, holding her gaze even as he pulls his shirt over his head. Even sated, she looks at him as if she just can't wait, as if her thirst for him, for his body, was insatiable. Her pupils widen and she licks her lips as he pushes his pants and underwear down, freeing his erection, that stands proud and hard, drops of pre-cum already gleaming on the tip of the head.

He looks deep into her eyes as he takes himself into his hand and pumps himself; he doesn't miss as her lips part slightly in desire, nor as she opens her legs for him in an inviting gesture. He needs no more encouragement.

The next moment he's back on her, keeping his weight off her with one hand while he pulls one of her legs over his shoulder, spreading her wide, granting himself better access. The next moment, he is sliding inside her, sliding in deep, without resistance – Skye's so wet and ready and welcoming. She sighs at the loving intrusion, while he moans out loud – no matter how many times she allows him to become one with her, it is always as awe-inspiring as the first time.

He waits a moment, basking in the feeling of her warm, silky wall enveloping him, then starts moving – slowly, deliberately, not rushing towards the end. Being with Skye has taught him to savor the moment, to enjoy the journey, not just the goal. Still, he increases his speed slowly, kissing her knee, her calf, squeezing her breasts, playing with the nipples, then, finally, when he can feel her walls tightening around him, her second orgasm for the night approaching, reaching down and rubbing her clit with his thumb.

When she cries out, her walls clenching then releasing him, he starts to feel the tell-tale tingling in the base of his spine and the tightening in his balls, so he keeps going, hard and fast, helping her orgasm along, lengthening it until she is whining under him – and then he is coming too, stars bursting behind his eyelids, shooting his seed into her, before his mind goes blissfully blank for a moment as pleasure erupts in every cell in his body.

His mind barely functions enough not to collapse on top of her – instead he falls down beside her on the bed, panting, his heart racing, feeling great, cleansed, divine. He pulls her – sweaty, spent, blissed out – close right away, drawing her onto his chest until her head is pillowed just under his chin. He buries his fingers in her tangled locks and presses a kiss against the top of her head, just as she places a soft, open-mouthed kiss on the warm skin on his chest, the wild gallop of their hearts slowing and then beating as one.

He might not have been keen on making love before, he thinks, holding her while she draws nonsensical patterns on his skin, but he sure as hell couldn't imagine doing anything but that with Skye.


	59. Long Live the King

**Long Live the King**

"So this is mommy's idea of fun, huh, princess?" Grant muttered more to himself than to the toddler in the stroller in front of him, looking around with a small frown on his face.

They had just moved to the D.C. suburbs last month, and while he agreed that their house was rather… sparse at the moment (it was near impossible juggling taking care of a one-year-old, working on the restoration of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s old glory _and_ decorating), but attending a goddamned garage sale on their first real day off in three weeks seemed like bit of a stretch to him. It wasn't like they needed to shop at places like this because of the prices – he had more than enough money saved from his pre-Coulson days as an agent to cover all of their possible expenses. And to put Haylie through Harvard.

So coming here made very little sense to him (no matter what Skye said about items found in places like this having _character_ ) – and, looking around, his gaze settling on an old, ugly, faded armchair that might have already been around at the time of the Moon landing, it was making even less sense as the minutes ticked by. There was no way he was having that monstrosity in his living room.

"Mommy!" Haylie giggled, clapping her tiny hands together, apparently having the time of her life amidst all this old, strange stuff.

"Yes, mommy's a little absurd sometimes," he answered, looking around for Skye, spotting her about twenty feet from them, browsing through a crate of tattered paperbacks. Grant let out a small, relieved sigh – there were things he was better off if she didn't hear.

Grimacing at a lamp that's creator must have been high on acid (sometime around the sixties, he guessed), he pushed the stroller forward, hoping to find something he could negotiate with if Skye ended up absolutely determined that they should leave with something. So far, he had no luck. Then, as he leaned down to observe a sideboard that was only half terrible (meaning it would be acceptable once painted in a less offensive color), Haylie suddenly shrieked with delight, "Kitty!"

Grant turned to his little girl instantly.

"Where is the kitty, princess?" he asked with a smile on his face, squatting down in front of the stroller. Haylie's been kind of obsessed with cats lately, the word "kitty" being an integral part of her vocabulary – that counted about a total of a dozen words –, and it absolutely amazed him. His fifteen-month-old was turning out to be a little chatterbox, and he loved every minute of it.

"Kitty!" Haylie repeated a little louder this time, pointing at something behind his back. Grant turned around, expecting to see a stuffed cat, or maybe a china one, or possibly a living one, or, in worst case scenario, a once living, now stuffed cat, but instead he found himself facing a painting that made him groan out loud.

It was the most hideous painting he had ever seen: in the center of it there was a black and white cat, sitting calmly – cute enough, too –, but everything else… Everything else made him question whether the painter was sane. Next to the cat there were three tiny, fat, nude angels flying around – one of them showing his ridiculously round bottom to observer –, one placing a crown on the top of cat's head, while the other two secured it's red, ceremonial cape. He had no idea which art period it belonged to, but he was sure as hell he didn't want to do anything with that era.

"Kitty!" Haylie called again, reaching for the picture with her tiny arms, completely enamored by it.

Grant turned his eyes from to painting to Haylie, then back to the picture.

"Oh, no. No, no, no," he chanted. "No way."

Haylie pouted, her lips trembling.

"Kitty! Want!" Grant was sure if she wasn't sitting in the stroller, she would have been stomping (who was that idiot who said two-year-olds were hard to handle? Haylie was handful enough sometimes already).

"Sweetheart, be reasonable," he started in a completely serious tone, glancing at the painting once again, and grimacing. "This is horrible."

"Kitty!" Haylie said, making her point clear: she didn't think that the painting was horrible.

This was the point when Grant realized that it was a battle he wasn't going to win. So he just sighed, and grabbed the frame of the picture as he stood up.

"Okay," he said, defeated. "We are getting the kitty." Haylie clapped and giggled. "But it's going to be in your room. And you have to convince your mother that it is not as creepy as I think it is."

"Kitty! Mommy!" she repeated.

Grant sighed again, shaking his head, but smiling; on the upside, now he had an item to negotiate with.

(It turned out, of course, that Skye loved the picture. She thought it was hilarious and creative, and he was half-afraid for a moment that she'll want to put it on the living room wall. In the end she didn't, but… like mother, like daughter, right?)

(Still, quirks aside, he was so blessed to have them.)


	60. Whispers in the Night

**Whispers in the Night**

"Tell me what you want."

His voice is a breathy whisper against her ear as his fingers skim along the skin of her hips – feathery-light touches that leave her dizzy –, and she just can't help but moan.

She won't lie (there's no point to) – she has been imagining how sex with Ward would feel like basically since the day they met. (The version of him who lived in the realms of her wildest fantasies made several long, lonely nights more bearable.) But she would have never guessed that it would be like… like this.

Tender. Loving. Tentative. Sensual. Waiting for her approval.

He places an open-mouthed kiss on her neck, his tongue touching the sensitive skin. A tremble runs through her body.

"You," she whispers, breathless. "I want you."

There's a moment of stillness when his gaze flickers to look into her eyes, seeking confirmation, and when he gets it, he kisses her, rough, demanding, passionate, while grabbing her hips and lifting her, until her legs are wrapped around his waist.

She doesn't protest, just keeps kissing him, the flames of desire rising inside her body as he takes her to his bunk, lays her down on the bed gently, almost too gently, and starts unbuttoning her shirt, kissing down the center of her chest as he pops open button after button.

It's great, it's amazing, it's heavenly, only… It doesn't feel like sex, she comes to the realization suddenly, almost scared, almost bolting from his bed.

Because he is kissing her – worshipping her – a lot like as if he loved her.

And she is not sure she's ready for that.

But then he sighs "Skye…" against her belly button, kissing the shallow dent in the muscle, and there's something in his tone that calms her, that makes her stay.

(She can love him. She loves him.)

So instead she sits up, pushing him back slowly. She shrugs off her shirt, reaches behind her back to unclasp her bra (she doesn't miss how his eyes darken as the garment comes off), and then, only then, she reaches for the hem of his T-shirt, pulling it off. She helps him get rid of his clothes, her eyes locked on his awe-struck gaze, to tell him that she is in it just as much as he is.

When he is finally bare against her nude form, he doesn't take her right away – he is still so unhurried –, but sits back as she lies in from of him, offering herself to him. He brushes his fingertips along her heated skin, tracing the contours of her breasts, the inward curve of her waist, his fingers slipping between her folds, until she is so aroused by his gentle, barely-there touches that she can hardly think.

When he finally slips into her, it's nothing like she's ever felt before. It's familiar and strange at the same time, as if they've been doing this for years, her body recognizing his, and yet, it's a shock, it's undiscovered territory, it's exciting, it's terrifying.

She loves it.

He sets a slow, unhurried rhythm, adjusting his movements to her sighs and moans and whimpers, as if he wanted to savor every single moment of their coupling, etching it into his memory (as if nothing matters, just her). And all the while he keeps whispering into her ear – whispering sweet nothings, things she wouldn't have thought he was capable of – things like that she's beautiful, that she's perfect, that she's his salvation. She wants to answer him, but she just can't, at least not with words – so she just buries her fingers in his hair, drawing his head up and kissing him, kissing him as she feels her orgasm approaching.

They come together, she spasming around him, he grunting and stilling, spilling himself inside her – and it's surprising, because it's something she's never experienced before, not with Miles, not with anybody else. She just wasn't attuned enough to them, she guesses.

But that raises the question: would she be so attuned to _him_?

Afterwards, when they both start their slow descend from their highs, he collapses next to her, his head pillowed on her chest, his hand resting on her hip. She doesn't even try to move – she just places her hand on his cheek, caressing his face, learning every line and angle.

And all the while, her pleasure-addled brain is turning – she knows she's gotten a lot more than she expected (than she deserved?), and that she is already deeper than she has ever meant to get.

But she doesn't care. She isn't even scared.

(Why would she be?)

Suddenly she knows, with perfect clarity, that she is right where she is destined to be.


	61. Just Let It All Out

**Just Let It All Out (You'll Feel Better Afterwards)**

Back when she first met him, Skye thought that Grant Ward was completely unreadable (save for the unhappy frowns) – so unreadable, in fact, that he doesn't even have emotions.

She knows it better now, of course.

Now she can see every little twitch, spot every tiny tell, and read him like an open book, even when he is an enigma to everybody else.

Just like now – she can see behind his perfectly structured shield as he tugs at the simple black tie, loosening it, then pulling it through his head, making his collar stand up. There's only an ounce more force in his movements than necessary, and his hands, his steady, sniper hands tremble just the slightest as he takes off his cufflinks, tossing them into the bowl on the top of the chest of drawers.

No matter how hard he tries to show otherwise, she can tell that he is close to breaking down.

She sits down by the desk, kicking off her heels and sighing.

"Maybe we should talk about it?" she prompts, making him look at her.

"What?" he asks, his expression forced-blank.

"You are right. You should do the talking. I'll just listen," she corrects herself, but he only shrugs.

"There's nothing to talk about."

 _This attitude is going to give him ulcer one of these day_ , she thinks as she starts pulling out the pins from her hair, letting the waves fall down. She's learned the hard way that it does no good to hide from your problems, to act like they don't exist, and although he's made a huge progress in the last year or so, he still has problems with understanding this concept.

Not that she can fully blame him.

They were at Gramsy's funeral today; an emotional enough event in itself (she didn't know the woman personally, but still loved her, through Grant's stories of his childhood visits to her, so she mourned with him), but then they just had to meet his siblings.

The original plan was to stay back, show their respect, then leave without talking to anybody – especially not to his family.

But then Thomas spotted them.

It was ugly.

There was a lot of name-calling and accusations in front of the funeral home, insults of how Grant even dared to come to the funeral. Anger and malice and hatred, first only from Thomas, then from his sister as well, who came out looking for her brother.

And the worst of it? Grant just stood there, enduring the verbal assault – and the prodding fingers and the pushing hands – with complete apathy. Like it didn't matter. Like he deserved it.

"What do you want me to say, Skye?" he says then after a few seconds of silence, his voice trembling a bit as he sits down on the edge of the bed. "Some Zen crap? That I'll rise above it? Or should I just simply say that I don't care – about them, about what they said?" He reaches for his eyes, angrily wiping away a yet unshed tear. "Because I can do that. Hell, of course I can do that – I'm good at lying, didn't you hear? I'm good at playing a saint while being a monster."

She just can't take it anymore. She stands up and walks to him, sitting down right next to him and taking his hand.

"Hey. Hey, look at me," she says, and when he won't, she places her hand on his cheek, and turns his head to face her. "First of all, you are not a monster – we have talked about that. You are not a bad person. You are a very good person…"

"…Who bad things have happened to," he finishes the quote for her, casting his eyes down.

"Exactly," she nods. "Secondly, I know that you wanted them to forgive the old stuff and take you back. To understand what happened," she tells him with utter frankness, not holding back anything. "But sometimes it just won't work out. Any anyway, who says that they deserve you? Because if you ask me, they don't. And why should you waste your time on people who just refuse to see the real you, refuse to hear your side of the story, huh?" She gives him a tiny, sad smile. "And take it from somebody who epicly failed at reconnecting with her birth family – sometimes it just really doesn't worth it. Sometimes the family you find yourself is a lot better than the one you were born into – and you already have an awesome found family. And," she places his hand on the gentle curve of her belly, her bump still almost completely hidden by the cut of her dress, "you have us now, too. You have a family who loves you. You don't need them."

"I know," he replies, and she can tell from the set of his mouth that he is trying to be strong, but he's just an inch from breaking. "And I love you. It's just… It's just…"

The next moment he is crying (something she never would have thought she'd see one and a half years ago), tears spilling from his eyes as he hugs her close and buries his face in her neck, his fist clenching the material of her black dress at her shoulder blade.

"It's okay," she murmurs into his ear, gently rubbing his back. "It's okay to cry. It'll be better afterwards…"


	62. Yours, Mine, Ours

**Yours, Mine, Ours**

Grant has always been a light sleeper – it comes with the territory of being a specialist –, and yet now he doesn't wake until the toilet flushes, but by the time the bathroom door opens and Skye stumbles back into the room, he already has the lamp on the bedside table turned on.

"Do you really have to burn my retinas out?" she grumbles wearily, shielding her eyes from the harsh light of the lamp.

She looks like a mess – not very much different from her usual middle-of-the-night mess, but bad enough that his throat tightens; her eyes are barely open, her hair a big mess of long curls (it'll be a nightmare getting the kinks out, he knows), and she is only wearing a greatly oversized plaid shirt (he'd bet she snatched it from Mack's laundry, because "it's big, and warm, and comfy, and you don't wear plaid, Robot. Shame on you") over her panties, with only a couple of the buttons made up, and even those are miss-matched. (If he didn't know how miserable she must be feeling, he'd find her adorable.)

"Were you sick again?" he asks, concern evident in his voice as he pushes down the head of the lamp.

Skye only gives him a weak little wave of her hand as she walks back to her side of the bed.

"No. I had to pee," she tells him, resigned, before practically falling into the bed face-first. "I thought this part, this going-to-the-bathroom-every-hour–thing, wouldn't come until near the end," she complains, her voice muffled by the pillow. "Urgh… I'll have to read all those books Jemma got me. Just to avoid any further unexpected, nasty surprises."

He tries not to chuckle at her as he pulls the duvet over her, but he is having a hard time about it. (He can't help it – he has been feeling kind of giddy ever since they learned about the baby.)

As symptomless as her pregnancy was in the very beginning, now at nine weeks, it is turning to be a special kind of torture: bouts of nausea is tormenting her through the day, she just can't stand certain smells (like Hunter's cologne; although it was funny when she marched up to him and told him straight that he can't wear the scent again until she popped this baby), she is often drowsy, having to take a nap in the middle of the day, she easily gets dizzy, her breasts are tender, and the newest: she needs to go to the bathroom all the time. (But on the upside, her sex drive seems to be increasing – now, he's not complaining about that one.)

"That might not be a bad idea," he tells her, soothingly brushing through her hair (his fingers get stuck in the mess of curls). "I've already looked into some of them; they're not that bad."

There's a couple seconds of silence, and then, "Your kid hates me."

Her sudden proclamation in the dim stillness of the room is so absurd that he laughs out loud.

" _My_ kid?"

"Yes," she says, turning towards him and propping herself up on her elbow. "It's the best if we make it abundantly clear early on: when it's all adorable and lovely, it is _my_ kid. When it's a menace tormenting me, it's _your_ kid. Right now it won't let me sleep," just to punctuate it, her sentence is interrupted by a yawn, "so it's your kid."

The corner of his mouth twitches into a faint smile, no matter how hard he tries to keep a straight face.

"Then let me apologize in _my_ kid's stead," he says, leaning in and placing a small kiss on her mouth. "Sorry," he whispers against her lips. "Now try to sleep – you need rest." He sneaks a hand under the covers and places it on her still flat belly, rubbing it gently. "Both of you."

"Hm, okay," she murmurs, smiling, her eyelids are dropping as she lowers her head back on the pillow. "Hm… our kid is going to be so loved…" she says softly, barely audible, and then a moment later she is already asleep.

Grant can't help but grin as he turns around to turn off the lamp.

"I have absolutely no doubts about that…"

(Barely an hour later she bolts from the bed once again, this time actually to throw up.)

(He can't wait for the first trimester to end.)


	63. Minor Complications

**A/N:** In my past fics, you have already met my two Skyeward baby OCs, Haylie and Ada, a couple of times. For those who don't follow me on Tumblr, their appearances might seem random – but I'd like to assure you that I have a whole timeline and a backstory for them. Actually, I have even put together a list of all the fics – in chronological order – that feature them/take place in their AU verse. And now that this list has a permanent URL, the link for this can be found on my profile :)

* * *

 **Minor Complications**

In his ten years as an agent, Grant Ward has never butchered a mission. Sure, a couple have gone south, others just simply didn't work out, but there was none that was explicitly his fault. He didn't butcher any of them.

But damn, he is sure he is about to break that record.

Because he just can't stop staring at her, which is seriously messing with his focus.

It was supposed to be an easy mission, something he would have been able to do in his sleep: get into the banquet undetected (hell, it was even a masquerade; almost as if the guy was playing into their hands), mingle, wait for the opportunity, then steal away, get into the host's office, do their thing, then come back to the ballroom, mingle some more, then simply leave at the end of the event. And since the mission did involve some hacking, he thought it would be an ideal training-op for Skye (and anyway, these kind of missions were easier to do with a partner; if you are caught in a place where you shouldn't be, you can always just act like as if you just sneaked away for some making out or a quickie).

So he expected it to go smoothly.

Man, how wrong he was!

Of course, the problem is not with her (for once) – other than the slight tension in her posture, there because she is not used to "fancy folks like these" (her words), she is a natural. She charmingly flirts with the male guests, accepts their compliments with utter grace and a slight blush almost completely hidden by her mask, and innocently asks the security where she can find the bathroom (while snatching the guy's keycard, of course; Ward half-wonders whether he should be concerned about her pick-pocketing skills).

It's him who is about to blow the whole damn mission.

Because… ah, because he's so used to seeing her in jeans and plaid shirts and PJs with teddy bears on them, now that she stands before him in her red dress that fits her like a glove, her hair put up in an intricate bun, her heels making her seem so tall, it's just… wow.

Honestly, he has no other words than… wow. She's simply beautiful beyond words.

"Earth to Robot," he hears her voice then, pulling him back to the present. "The guards just started their round," she says, peering around from behind her gilded mask. "Meaning we have about ten minutes until action," she reports to him, as he asked her to do, so he could see how well she can assess the situation.

He just nods, looking around himself, to check whether she's right or not. She is.

"Okay. Good work," he says finally. He doesn't miss the smile forming on her lips at his compliment.

He fiddles with his champagne flute. Ten minutes is a long time. A long, long time. And she's beautiful.

He puts down his glass on a nearby table, and gently takes her hand, his thumb caressing the arch between her thumb and forefinger.

"What?" she asks, laughter hiding in her voice.

"We have some time to spare," he tells her, looking deep into her eyes, trying to sound not too smitten. "Dance with me?"

She grins at him, the corners of her yes crinkling.

"I thought you'd never ask," she answers, and lets him lead her to the dance floor.

(They miss their opportunity, and have to wait almost another hour until the guards' next round. The mission is still a success, but he has no idea how to explain the delay in his report without losing face.)

(It was still worth it.)


	64. Miscommunication

**Miscommunication**

When Skye asked him if he wanted to go out and explore the nearby town on their day off while the Bus was going through maintenance, he said yes right away. As happy as he was about their fledging relationship, the stolen moments of intimacy with her on the Bus weren't nearly enough; he desperately needed some real alone time with her.

And on the top of it all, he had actually been to this charming Italian town before, although, to be honest, he didn't see much of it – but it was enough for him to start planning their romantic little stroll along the cobblestoned streets, and the candlelit dinner at one of the family-owned, little ristorantes. And the plan was looking better and better in his head by the minute.

So of course it went up in smoke even before it started – because he wasn't the only one she invited.

He tried not to be – or at least look – too bitter as they stood on some fifteenth century stone bridge, looking at some fifteenth century villa in the distance, while Simmons blabbered about the Italian Renaissance, with Fitz quipping in sometimes, and Skye listening to them wide-eyed, licking her gelato.

Grant let out a slightly irritated sigh, leaning against the balustrade. It wasn't as if he didn't like Fitz and Simmons – they were the little brother and sister he wished he had, but damn, he so didn't want to have them around right now; he didn't need chaperones, stealing away the time he could have spent with Skye. Alone. Because today he wanted play… well – forgive the lack of creativity –, Romeo, at least without the part with the suicide. And there he was, stuck with the role of the babysitter. (For which he was kind of mad at Skye, too. After all, it was her fault that they didn't get the romantic date he envisioned.)

"Hey, Robot," Skye stepped up to him suddenly, leaving FitzSimmons behind for a while, a faint smile on her lips. "What's up?"

"Nothing," he replied, trying not to grumble.

She frowned – of course; not matter how hard he would try to hide his irritation from her, she read him like a book (which still unnerved him a little). Of course she would catch up.

"Do you want to try again?"

He let out a heavy sigh, rubbing his hand through his hair.

"It's just…" he started, trying to find the right words. "It's not exactly what I planned."

Skye tilted her head in curiosity, prompting him to go on.

"I thought we'd be alone?" he told her, his sentence sounding a lot more like a question than he intended to be. "I wanted to make it romantic for you – because we haven't really had the chance for that yet. So I thought we'd take a walk, and then I was going to show you this house which has this legend attached to it – I even looked it up for you –, then I thought we could go to the park–"

That was how far he got in his monologue, because then Skye placed her hand in his forearm, rose to her tip toes and kissed him, silencing him. Her lips were soft, warm from the Tuscan sun, and tasted faintly of vanilla ice-cream. He closed his eyes and got lost in the kiss for a moment.

"Do you have any idea what an adorable dork you are sometimes?" she told him, grinning up at him when they pulled away. "Because you are. Honestly, nobody has ever put so much thought into a date with me before, and it really means a lot to me. And I'm sorry – I had no idea you had plans like these."

"It's okay, really…" he started, still a little lightheaded from the kiss.

"No, it's not," she interrupted him, lacing their fingers together. "I was an ass, not even asking you if it was okay if FitzSimmons came along. Sorry," she repeated, pecking him on the cheek.

"Apology accepted," he told her, his anger having suddenly evaporated. Skye gave him a conspiratory look.

"Is there any parts in your date plan that are still salvageable?" she asked almost cheekily.

He caught up to her train of thought rather quickly; he grinned and leaned down, stealing a kiss.

"Of course."

"Then what do you say we hitch the science twins, and as apology, I buy you some coffee?"

"I say I love how your mind works."

She grinned and sneaked an arm around his waist, letting him lead her away from the bridge without Fitz and Simmons noticing them leave.

(When they got back to the Bus just before midnight, they had to face the pissed off Simmons and Fitz, who was rather literally worried sick about them, but it was still so worth it.)


	65. A House Is Not a Home

**A House Is Not a Home**

Skye pushes the door open with her foot, grunting under her burden, then walks into the apartment, setting the box in her hands in the middle of the living room, next to the others. Standing up again she lets out a huff and looks around.

A simple, S.H.I.E.L.D.-issue apartment, one of the many identical ones built in the complex next to the new Triskelion (which is still under construction, but who cares?) – a kitchen, a living room, a bathroom and a bedroom. White walls, dark floorboards, basic furniture (both in function and style). Sure, it's the fanciest place she could ever call her own, but it's still… bland. Characterless. And they have – she looks down next to her feet – three boxes (plus two more that Grant is bringing up right now) and two duffel bags.

She pouts at them – there's no way they can make this place _theirs_.

A soft click, then quiet footsteps interrupt her thoughts as Grant gets back to the apartment, his face hidden behind the box-tower he's holding in his hand. She just can't keep herself from smiling at the sight.

As if he already knows the layout, Grant gracefully puts down and the boxes, then, facing her, he smiles down at her; but, reading her well, his smile soon turns into a small frown.

"Is everything alright?" he asks, reaching out to take her hand.

She shrugs, hugging her arm close to herself self-consciously.

"Yeah, sure, it's just…" She sighs, looking around. "It doesn't feel like home. At all," she confesses to him.

She half expects him to laugh, but he doesn't. Instead he pulls her close, presses a kiss to her forehead, then leads her to the couch. It's black, made if faux leather; it's squeaky and hard and entirely uncomfortable. She wiggles on it as she sits down next to Grant, but she just can't find the perfect position.

"I know what you are feeling – I guess," he tells her after a short pause, drawing her close until her head is pillowed on his shoulder. "It really feels… impersonal."

She nods.

"Exactly. I just can't see it becoming a home."

"Well, I can," he replies, leaning down and stealing a kiss. "I know you can make a home out of it. You already have, really – since wherever you are, that's _my_ home."

She grins against his sweater.

"You are a big, corny robot, aren't you?" she says with a teasing edge in her voice, cuddling closer to him. "Who would have thought?"

Her head bounces a little as he laughs.

"Only for you," he tells her, then falls silent for a while. "And it's not like this is a permanent situation."

"It is not?" she asks a bit surprised, rising a little.

"Of course not," he tells her, looking into her eyes and squeezing her hand. "I mean this place is too small. There's not even a room you could turn into a nursery. Hell, there's not even enough space for a crib in the bedroom."

"I guess you're right. This place really is…" She starts then stops mid-sentence, her eyes going wide as his words sink in. "Honestly?!" she raises her voice, hitting his chest half-playfully. "You are honestly telling me now – and this way – that you want a family with me? Honestly?!" She hits him again, but he just chuckles.

"Honestly," he agrees, then kisses her long and slow. "I want a family with you, Skye," he tells her with complete earnestness, looking so deep into her eyes that she blushes.

"Well, good," she manages to say. "Because I want that, too. With you."

"Great." Another kiss. "Then we'll make this place ours as well as we can…"

"…Yes."

"…Then when we decide that it's time…"

"…When the baby's on the way…"

"Yes. Well, then we move. We'll buy a house – lots of space, and a yard, and we'll even get a white picket fence if you want."

"Nah," she grimaces. "That's too clichéd," she shakes her head, making him laugh.

"Okay – no picket fence," he nods. "But until then what about unpacking?" he asks, standing up and pulling her with himself as well.

"I'm game," she tells him, grinning. "Let's make this place ours as much as we can," she says, suddenly with a lot more enthusiasm, already leaning over and opening one of the boxes. "Oh, but before I forget," she tells him turning back towards him with a mischievous smile on her lips. "I'm calling dips on the right side of the bed. And the closet place."

The corner of his mouth twitches.

"We'll see about that," he tells her calmly, then the next moment he's on her, grabbing her around the waist and lifting her, making her squeal with laughter as they fall back on the couch in a heap of limbs.

(Six months later they are already looking for houses.)


	66. Another Interrogation

**A/N:** This story is a sneak peek into an AU that could have happened if things were a bit different in the show. As a foreword, I'll only say that in the universe HYDRA exists – still in the shadows – but Ward is not aware of it. Everything else in here, I guess. Also, I think there's a lot more to it than this one-shot, but I have no capacity to write it, but if you want to, it's up for the grabs :) (Also I guess it's the only fic ever where I'll willingly call Skye Daisy.)

* * *

 **Another Interrogation**

Agent Grant Ward stood in front of the interrogation room's two-way mirror, looking at the girl inside. She was the only living prisoner in the research lab they raided earlier today; she had some kind of power, it was clear from the data they managed to recover from the lab's server, but they had no idea what exactly. Furthermore, the girl herself was an enigma – no fingerprint, facial, or DNA match, like she didn't exist at all. And to make matters worse – she stubbornly kept her mouth shut, barely saying a word since she was brought in.

Ward took a good look at her now, studying every little detail, before going in and trying to get her talk. She was young, maybe around twenty. Her olive skin was pale, she had circles under her eyes and her long, dark hair hung lifelessly down her back. She was also thin, malnourished – he remembered how her collarbone had stuck out from under her hospital gown-like attire she wore when they found her –, but otherwise she seemed unharmed. On a good day, in her full glory, she must have been striking, but even now she had a grace about her he couldn't exactly grasp. She also had a confident, determined – stubborn – flame burning in her gaze, something he couldn't help but admire.

He let his shoulders drop for a moment as he sighed – it was time to try and break this girl whom captivity hadn't been able to break.

He walked into the interrogation room in a leisurely pace – he could feel her gaze on him –, then sat down opposite of her, looking into her eyes, unblinking. Ten seconds in, it was already a battle of wills.

"I just want to help, you need to know that," he told her after a full minute of silence, using a soft tone, speaking slowly, forming each word carefully, like he was taught at the academy. "I want to help you get home. But I need your help to do that."

She snorted at his words.

"Yeah, like I'll believe that." Her bravado was almost comical – she was a small woman, and her borrowed, oversized S.H.I.E.L.D.-hoodie made her look even tinier.

"You don't want to get home?" he asked, unfazed. _Keep calm. Don't let them sway you. Stick to the objective. Appeal to their wants_ – he kept repeating his Academy lessons in his head.

"I don't want _you_ to get to my home" she answered in a spiteful tone that confused Ward a bit. It was just not making sense – S.H.I.E.L.D. rescued her from a lab, and instead of gratitude, all they got from her was contempt. There had to be something there that made her act this way.

Ward took a deep breath.

"You don't need to be so hostile," he told her, his patience slowly slipping. "I really mean the best for you."

"Oh, seriously?" Her voice was dripping with sarcasm. "Like… what? Locking me up, doing tests on me? Or better yet, use me to get to the others?" He didn't know what she was talking about, but before he could have asked, she continued. "I have a better idea – go and fuck yourself!" And with that, although there was absolutely no point in it, she jumped from her seat and started for the door.

Ward was on his feet in a moment, catching her halfway and grabbing her hand, forcing her back to her seat with a little more force than absolutely necessary.

"What's wrong with you?" He slipped; he slipped and let his mask of patience fall down. He let out a huff of a breath once she was sitting again.

"What's wrong with me?" she repeated, her voice rising. "What it could be? It's just that the last time S.H.I.E.L.D. come to my home, they massacred everybody!"

Her words were followed by utter, complete silence. Ward blinked at her, trying to put the pieces of the puzzle together, the world spinning around him. He just didn't understand what she was talking about – S.H.I.E.L.D. massacring people? That couldn't have been right. He had seen a lot of ugly things S.H.I.E.L.D. did in the name of the greater good, but killing the population of a whole village? Nothing seemed to warrant that, not to mention that he should have had heard of an operation that big. It just wasn't adding up.

He counted to three in his mind, then let her go.

"I'm nothing like that," he told her, although even he wasn't sure he was telling the truth. What was going on here?

He walked to the corner, reached up, and turned off the camera there. Then walked back to the table, and slowly removed his firearms from their holsters – the left first, then the right –, and laid them out in front of her on the table.

The girl looked up at him, confused.

"What…?"

"I want you to trust me," he told her, with a lot less emotion than he felt. "I'm unarmed; you have your power, whatever that might be. You can overpower me, if you want – kill me, even –, and you can run. I'll even tell you where to go once you're out of this room." He looked into her eyes, gaze unwavering. "Or you can stay, and tell me what's going on, and then I can help you. Maybe," he added. "But I want you to know – you can trust me."

The girl hesitated for a moment, her eyes wide, her gaze searching him. Then she leaned back in her seat, took a deep breath, then started talking, looking at the wall behind him.

"When I was a baby, my family lived in small village in China – my mother was a local, my father an American surgeon. They met when he was there on a Doctors Without Borders Mission." He could see the tears glisten in her eyes, but she didn't stop, and he didn't interrupt her. "Then one day S.H.I.E.L.D. came – they were looking for my mother. She was special, you know? We have a name for it, but I think you guys would call her 'gifted'." He nodded, urging her to go on. "They killed everybody in the village; my father, too, although he managed to hid me first. As for mother?Her body was never found.

"It was my Uncle Gordon who found me, took me to Lai Shi – that's the home of my mother's people. Don't even ask where it is, I won't tell you," she added sharply. "That's where I grew up, raised by the elders who knew my mother. But then a…" She trailed off, choking up. "A couple of weeks ago Uncle Gordon disappeared. I left, trying to find him, but…"

"You were captured, too," he finished for her, a new kind of sympathy for her coming to life within him. She gave him a tiny nod.

"They killed him."

Instinctively, he reached over the table and placed his hand atop hers.

"Hey," he told her, making her look up at him. "I don't know what you are talking about was – it just couldn't have been an authorized S.H.I.E.L.D. operation –, but I know a couple of people who'd like to hear about it. And find out what really happened. And for that, we'll need your help."

She let out a teary chuckle.

"And why would you do that?"

"Because that's what I took an oath of – protection. And it seems like now it's your turn to be protected. Yours, and everybody else's who might be harmed in this case." He took a short pause, then continue. "Look, I can't promise you much. We might not even get anywhere with this. But believe me when I say: you don't have to be afraid of me." He squeezed her hand. "Just as I've already told you: I want to help. And I want to get to the bottom of it as much as you. Are you in?"

She regarded him for a moment before nodding.

"Alright. But if catch even a little foul play, I'll bolt, and you'll never see me again."

"It's a fair arrangement," he nodded, letting go of her hand. "But if we are to be really partners in this – can I at least get your name?"

She smiled faintly at him.

"It's Ju. But you can call me Daisy."

* * *

A/N: As for the name Ju – I checked it, it's an existing Chines name for girls, meaning "daisy flower". Since in the AU Skye was raised by the elders of Lai Shi – with whom Jiaying conversed in Chinese – I think it would be logical for them to call her by the Chinese equivalent of her name.


	67. Shopping with Daddy

**A/N:** Because of poor time management/sleazy sleeping patterns, I'M a day behind schedule. I'll try to readjust it as soon as I can **.** Also, there's a little something brewing for you in the Haylie/Ada Verse :) Visit my profile, that has the link for the details!

* * *

 **Shopping with Daddy**

When Grant was just a rookie at the Academy – finally amongst people after five years in the woods – he met an agent, hardened by service, who told him that there always would be missions, only they would change in nature. Back then he had an idea what he meant – mostly getting higher in the hierarchy, and the changing word demanding different tactics. But now, as he lifted the lightly dozing Haylie out of the car seat to strap her into the carrier on his chest, he understood that there could be a lot more things in life that one can consider a mission.

Like getting through grocery shopping with a twenty-two month old, preferably without a tantrum.

With the business of the last week or so – with him first on a five-day-long mission in Kazakhstan, then sent on a flash-op in London barely thirty-six hours after getting home, and Skye trying to track down a possibly radical anti-gifted group through the Internet –, he had come to the realization today that their fridge was all but empty. But with Skye out like the light, sleeping soundly in their bed – they were expecting their second baby in November, and at eleven weeks she was just as exhaustible as during the beginning of her first pregnancy, but at least the morning sickness was better this time –, he decided to take Haylie, and get the task done himself.

To his luck, Haylie had dozed off during the short car ride, too; she was a good sleeper, something he had murmured many thanks for in the last nearly two years, so he reckoned if he was quick, he could finish shopping before Haylie woke.

The plan worked for a while – he got a cart, walked into the store, and even managed to get everything from the dairy section with Haylie sleeping peacefully, her head pillowed on his chest, one of her tiny hands gripping his T-shirt in her dream. But as they got to the fresh produces, she started stirring.

Her fist first tightened around his T-shirt, then she sleepily blinked, shaking her head a little and looking around.

"Daddy?" she said in a questioning tone, slightly confused by the unfamiliar surroundings, but at least without the trembling lips that was the surefire sign of a coming sobbing-session. And really, a moment later her excitement and curiosity triumphed, and she bounced against his chest in the carrier, looking around and pointing at a crate of onions. "What that?" she wriggled, trying to reach the crate, kicking him in the side in the process. His brave little girl.

Chuckling, he leaned down, picked up an onion, and handed it to Haylie. She raised it to her face, sniffed at it, then wrinkled her nose in disgust.

"Yuck. Daddy, don't want," she made her opinion clear, almost dropping the onion.

He took it from her, put it into a plastic bag, then picked a few more and added them to the cart.

"Sorry, princess, but we need some," he told her, pressing a kiss to the top of her head, then, to divert her attention, he picked up a tomato. "What about this? You like tomatoes, don't you?"

Haylie looked at the brightly colored vegetable, took it into her hand, feeling the soft texture before nodding, recognizing it.

"Yes! I like toma!" she said, grinning happily.

It seemed like a good game to play – before adding anything to the cart, he'd hand it Haylie to take a look at it and either approve or disapprove the purchase. It kept her entertained, and with this method they even got to practice the names of things – Grant hoped Haylie would remember at least a few of them, to be able to show off her broadened vocabulary to Skye once they got home. And true, this way shopping took almost twice as long, but on the other hand they managed to get through it without a tantrum (which was a feat in itself, because as they were approaching Haylie's second birthday, he was starting get a sense why that age was generally called "the terrible twos") – although Haylie's lips alarmingly trembled when he added a can of beans to the cart against her decision, though what her problem was with the beans, he had no idea.

By the time they got home and he walked into the kitchen with Haylie propped up on one hip, a paper bag full of groceries hold against his other side, Skye was already up, working on something on her laptop while sipping tea from a mug – the same brand she had used to drink when pregnant with Haylie, to settle her stomach, based on the scent –, their baby nothing yet but a slight curve under her top. She looked up as they approached.

"Hey," she said, smiling as she reached for Haylie and lifting the toddler into her lap. "Everything okay? Did she behave?"

Grant nodded, placing the bag of groceries on the counter.

"Like a little angel," he answered, prompting Skye to nuzzle her nose against Haylie's, making the little girl laugh.

"Oh, really?" she asked, tickling Haylie's side.

He smiled at them, then turned to go back to the car and bring in the other bags. But before he could have left the kitchen, he heard Haylie say "Mommy, we buy toma and peppe' and lots!"

Okay, so he might have been a little proud of himself.


	68. Flower Crowns

**Flower Crowns**

Grant took a deep breath, inhaling in the sweet, fresh air. He didn't really miss nature – the claustrophobic openness sometimes reminded him too much of his years in the woods –, but it always was a relief when he, Skye, and the girls could manage to get away from the capitol for a couple of days and visit the Barton farm.

The girls enjoyed it just as much, if not more – although they had a small backyard in D.C., it was nothing compared to the acres of meadows that surrounded the farm. The urge to run around and discover things and find new adventures was just too big to ignore, so he and Skye always had to pay close attention to the girls, lest they wandered away.

But now he was in luck – Haylie and Ada had just found a patch of daisies, and they were busy picking the white flowers, while Haylie recited some rhyme or story she learned at kindergarten to entertain her little sister. It was a heartwarming sight – they really were blessed with two kids like them. He let out a little, content sigh and stood from the picnic bench, walking to his little princesses.

By the time he got to them, they were already done the picking – now they were sitting on the grass, a bunch of flowers between them. Haylie was holding a couple of the daisies in her hand, twisting them around, and showing it to Ada, who, although couldn't keep exactly still, watched her in amazement.

"Can I join you princesses?" he asked them with a smile on his face, eager to join their game. Haylie glanced up him, too absorbed in her task, gave him a quick nod, then turned her attention back on the flowers. Permission give, he eased himself down to the ground – Ada climbed into his lap right away. "What are you doing?" he asked from his firstborn, while taking Ada's little hands into his own.

"A flower crown," Haylie answered, flashing him a little grin. "Miss Macy showed us how to do it last week."

"Really? Can you show me how?" he said, leaning closer. Haylie nodded vigorously, shuffling closer to him.

"Okay, so you take three flowers – no, daddy, you need ones with longer stems! –, and then you put this one here, and this here…" Haylie explained, while getting started on the little braid. Grant copied what she'd shown him, sometimes purposefully messing up a little, and blaming it on his "big, lame fingers", just to make the girls laugh. They worked side by side – while Ada mostly messed up the pile of flowers between them –, and soon enough they had two finished crowns – although he had to help Haylie to finish her own.

"Do you want to show mommy what you made?" he asked from Haylie, to which the little girl replied with and excited nod, grabbed her daisy crown and set off, running back to the picnic table, right into her mother's arms.

Grant stood as well, picking up Ada as well, flower crown slipped onto his wrist. When they reached the table, Haylie was already showing around her creation proudly, basking in the undivided attention of both Skye and Laura. Then as he stepped up behind Skye, guided by a sudden idea, he put Ada down on the bench, slipped his crown from his wrist and placed it on his wife's head.

Skye went still for a moment, then reached for the crown, gently brushing the petals of the flowers with her fingertips. A moment later she turned around to face him, amusement dancing in her eyes.

"Daisies, really?" she asked, laughter hiding in her voice. "Don't you think it's bit a of a cliché?"

He just simply shrugged.

"Finding your one true love and getting a happily ever after are clichés, too, but they have worked out pretty well for us," answered, prompting some awws, as well as boisterous laughter from around the table.

"Look at that," Clint grinned, "I knew you were smitten, son, when I first met you, but I thought it would ease up with the years. And now here I am, looking at the proof that I was gravely wrong. You are even worse than you used to be."

Grant gave the Avenger a grin at hearing it, but no retort – he was way too preoccupied by Skye, who stood up in the meantime, put her arms around his neck and pressed a kiss against his lips.

"He might be right," she said in a teasing tone. "You have it bad for me. But it's okay – never, ever change, okay?" And she gave him another kiss.

That was how long Haylie's attention lasted.

"Hey!" she called impatiently, "And now who's gonna wear my crown?"


	69. Steal Me Away

**Steal Me Away**

Skye closes her eyes, and tries to concentrate on what her other sense are telling her: the soft murmur of the ocean, the waves licking her feet, the salty wind caressing her skin and lifting her hair, the scent of palm trees and citrus and _summer_ in the air.

She lets out a little, content sigh, all the tension leaving her body. She really needed this.

 _It was a bad mission – a trap, really. They barely got away, and one of them, a rare agent who stayed even of the fall of S.H.I.E.L.D. was hit badly – Skye had blood on her hands, his blood, and she just had enough. She felt like combusting, she wanted to cry and shout and claw at her skin, because it was too much, she wasn't ready for this, she wasn't…_

 _But Grant helped – he always did, in his silent way. He led her away from the hangar, away from the horrors, into their shared bunk; he helped her to get rid of her dirty, blood-stained clothes, and made her stand under the shower. He didn't leave her until he knew she'd be okay._

 _She was already curled up in bed, wearing one of his old, faded shirts, the covers pulled to her chin when he returned. He picked up her laptop and brought it over to her._

" _I need you to create two false identities – one for me and one for you. They don't have to be airtight – just something that gets us through airport security," he told her._

" _Why?" She blinked up at him with wide eyes. He didn't answer right away – at first, he leaned down and pressed a kiss against her forehead, pushing her hair back._

" _Because this time tomorrow, we'll be sitting on a plane going… I don't know. Somewhere tropical and clichéd. Like the Bahamas. Or Hawaii. I don't care. But I'm taking you on a vacation."_

And that's what he did – within four hours he managed to convince Coulson to give them a couple of days off, chose a location, booked plane tickets and a hotel room under their false aliases, and packed her suitcase. And the next morning they were already leaving the base.

And now… now they are here.

A pair of strong arms wrap around her waist.

"Hey," Grant whispers into her ear, kissing her neck. "I wondered where you went."

She gives him a little shrug, leaning against his tall frame.

"I just missed the ocean, I guess." She turns around, facing him, and putting her arms around his neck. "Thank you for doing it for me," she says, looking deep into his eyes. She really is thankful – because even if only for a couple of days, she can be a silly girl and pretend that everything is right in her world; that she's just a girl on vacation on a tropical island with her boyfriend whom she is head over heels in love with.

He smiles down at her – his smile is something she thinks she'll never get enough of.

"It was the least I could do. And anyway," his arms tighten around her middle, pulling her closer, "do you know what day it is?"

She gives him a little frown – she is sure she should know what day it is, but she just has no idea –, then shakes her head.

He doesn't answer right away, but puts his hand under her chin and gently tilts her head so he can kiss her lips.

"It's our anniversary," he tells her when they pull apart. "It was one year ago today that I first met you."

She just can't help it – breaking the serenity of the moment, she bursts out laughing.

"You really want to celebrate the anniversary of the day when you put a bag on my head, pulled me out of a van, and then we kept playing and insulting each other in the cage?"

He shrugs, his smile widening into a grin.

"Well, you pretty much turned my life around that day. I think it's worth celebrating, so…" there's a mischievous glint in his eyes that comes out so rarely, but something she absolutely adores. "…Can I at least buy you a drink?"

She laughs, burying her face in his chest.

"I want a piña colada – in a pineapple, with a little umbrella and a curly straw. Do you think they have that stuff here? Because if they don't, I'll deeply disappointed in this place." She grabs his hand, squeezing his fingers, and starts leading him back to the bar. "And then maybe some Sex on the Beach?" she adds with a wink.

He chuckles then grabs her by the waist and picks her up, holding her bridal style, eliciting an amused squeal from her.

"I like where your mind is at," he tells her.

* * *

"I hate you a little bit right now," she tells him hours later, lying in bed, sated, blissed out and on the verge of falling asleep, as he draws nonsensical patterns on her naked back.

"Why?" he asks, amused.

She lets out a little groan.

"Because you set the bar too high – how the hell am I gonna top _this_ for our _actual_ anniversary?"


	70. Baby-Waiting Jitters

**Baby-Waiting Jitters**

For a moment or two Grant just watches her from the distance, as she stands by the window, looking out at the patch of green by the base's main building; she is… breathtaking. Despite the tiredness, she is glowing, radiating calm happiness. One of her hands is rested on the small of her back, the other on her belly – on the perfectly round bump that he doesn't really believe can grow even bigger –, absent-mindedly caressing it.

"Hey," he says at last, steeping forward, reaching for her. "How are you feeling?"

She doesn't even get startled; she just turns towards him, gives him a little smile, and lets him step behind her and put his arms around her middle, so she can lean against him.

"Honestly?" she replies. "I'm super excited and terrified at the same time."

He softly chuckles at that, although, to be honest, he is feeling the same way. They had their last scheduled appointment with Skye's doctor – the woman who is to deliver their baby –, who said that with only two weeks left until Skye's official due date, their baby might come any day now.

 _Any day now_. Any day now, they'll be parents – he is still having a hard time wrapping his mind around it.

"I mean, of course I can't wait to have her in my arms, but at the same time… I'm scared a bit of the whole ordeal, you know?" she confides in him.

He would be surprised if she weren't. He slides his hand down the curve of her belly in a calming gesture, feeling their daughter kick against his palm. He grins at the forceful nudge – his daughter is so strong.

"Hey, don't you worry," he tells her softly, trying to reassure her. "Even the doc said that she thinks everything will go smoothly, and you are in good hands."

And she really is. It was decided early on that Skye should give birth at the base, and they planned accordingly – he and Fitz spent the last couple of days transforming one of the old, unused storage rooms near the lab into a delivery room under Jemma's strict guidance (since Skye made it abundantly clear that she would not give birth in one of the rooms with the glass walls in the tiny med bay of the base; she would have enough people staring at her vagina without any outside spectators, she reasoned). And he had to say, it didn't even turn out half bad – at least it wasn't threateningly hospital-like, which was a good thing, he assumed, since all the pregnancy books he read seemed to emphasize on the importance of keeping the mother calm and comfortable during labor. And what's more important: Jemma assured him that they were ready for everything.

Skye sighed and placed her hand on top of his, linking their fingers together.

"Our plan's still the same, right?" she asked, tilting her head back a bit. "You'll be there with me, right?"

"From the very first moment."

"And you'll cut the umbilical cord?"

"If that's what you want," he replied, chuckling slightly. "No matter how Hollywood it is."

She playfully hit him between the ribs with her elbow.

"I do. I want all the stupid clichés, really."

He grinned into her hair.

"Then okay – I'll do it," he whispers. "But promise me something in return?"

"Anything."

"Don't be stubborn – you don't have to do it meds-free; there's no honor in that. If you feel like you can't take it–"

"Then I'll ask for pain relief, I swear," she cuts in, the burrows deeper into his embrace. "But that's why you'll be there too – to hold my hand and tell me I can do it. You can do that, right? Next to cutting the umbilical cord?"

"That and more," he promises her, placing a kiss on the top of her head. "Whatever you need me to do."

He can practically feel her smile before he sees it as she turns around so she can look at him.

"That was exactly the answer I needed," she says before grabbing the front of his shirt and pulling him down a bit so she can kiss him. He grins against her lips.

"Anything for my girls."

(Their baby doesn't come until more than a week later, but this doesn't stop him from slightly panicking whenever Skye just flinches.)


	71. Snapshot

**A/N:** Don't forget, you have only one day left to nominate the names you'd like Haylie and Ada's little sister to be called! :)

* * *

 **Snapshot**

"Now we wait," Ward said, putting his cell back into his pocket. "May'll be here to pick us up in half an hour or so."

His words were followed by variety of reactions – Fitz dropped his chin into his palm and grunted, Simmons sighed and let her head fall back, while Skye actually whined, running her hand through her hair. He looked over his teammates, sitting in a neat row next to their equipment, leaning against the side of a house where nobody has lived in at least thirty years. He could understand them – the mission was a bust, they found nothing instead of Asgardian relics, and their car broke down, stranding them in this nondescript Finish village. He was mildly irritated, too.

With really nothing else to do, his gaze wandered to Skye – as it usually did nowadays, especially since there have been… developments in their relationship. The corner of his mouth twitched – yeah, they surely made some developments – he was sure she still bore the mark on the top of her thigh that stood testimony to that.

But pushing that particular memory to the back of his mind – they'd have plenty of time later to revisit it, once they got back to the Bus –, he focused his attention on Skye, and didn't exactly like what he saw. Skye sat there, almost curled up into a ball, her thin faux-leather jacket pulled close to her body, rocking slowly back and forth, as if trying to generate heat.

"Are you cold?" he asked softly, frowning at her. Skye looked up at him.

"Yeah, a bit," she admitted. "California girl here – I'm not exactly used to this weather."

It wasn't actually that cold, Ward noted to himself – he'd had worse in Massachusetts –, but still, they were up North in April, and even the weather wasn't that clear, so he had to admit that yes, it was a bit chilly. Nothing that bothered him, but Skye…

He looked briefly at FitzSimmons; well, it was like he couldn't trust them, or that they would judge him (much). He nodded at Skye.

"Come here," he told her, and when she hesitated, he reached out towards her, offering her his arm. She blinked, then accepted his hand, standing up. As soon as she was on her feet he turned her so she was with her back to him, then put his arms around her middle and pulled her close, so her back was pressed against his front.

He felt her relax right away, no longer cold; she let out a little sigh and leaned against him, basking in his body heat, tucking her head under his chin. The scent of her hair hit him immediately; he just could stop himself from taking a deep breath, inhaling it in, nor could he help the grin that formed on his face.

He had never thought he could feel this way towards a person – that holding somebody like this would feel this good, this right. The rush of elation as their bodies fit perfectly, the quickening of the heart, the simple knowledge that she was there, that she let him hold her, it were all amazing. Skye was… something else, something great, and he was so lucky for having been found by her. (And he couldn't believe how the last couple of weeks had had changed his life, his view on the order of things.)

"Aw, look at that," he heard Simmon's voice, dragging him back to reality. "You two are so cute together!" she cooed, clapping her hands together in joy, before turning to Fitz. "I told you they would come to their senses," she told him, clasping his forearm, which started an exchange between the two of them – the topic, of course, being his relationship with Skye – that was too quick for him to follow. Still, it made him feel a bit insecure, and he was just about to cut in, but then Skye squeezed his hand.

"Hey, let the kids have their fun!" she told him smiling widely, craning her neck so she could look at him. "And they are not wrong, anyway," she added with a wink. "As unbelievable as it is, you are positively adorable when you smile like this."

He was just about to retort that he was most definitely not adorable, but he only got to the part when he grinned down at her (absolutely smitten, he was afraid), when he heard Simmons' voice again:

"Look here and say cheese!" she said, holding her cellphone up and taking a picture of Skye and him, exactly the moment when both of them looked into the camera, big, happy smiles on their faces that were just screaming _in love_. "Oh, this is lovely…"

He wanted to be mad, or at least annoyed, at Jemma – but he just couldn't. And anyway, no matter how corny it was, now that it was taken, he really wanted that picture. It would have made a fine lockscreen photo.


	72. Hold Me (Until My Fears Are Chased Away)

**Hold Me (Until My Fears Are Chased Away)**

He's on a mission; she's in the command center (she can't go out, not anymore).

His comms go dark two hours in.

Her heart stops beating.

She tries everything in her power to get the connection back up, or at least hack into something near where he is supposed to be, to know that he's okay ( _he can't be dead, he can't be gone, not now, not when…_ ), but it's just beyond her power.

She is panicked, frantic, and she's sure her blood pressure is up in the skies. Jemma tries to reason with her, tries to get her out of the command center, but Skye just won't, not until… not until…

That's the point when she starts crying out of sheer frustration.

It's exactly 16:37 p.m. when he finally logs in from the quinjet.

"Mission accomplished," he sounds tired, but his voice is coming through the speakers clear and strong. "No casualties or injuries, although I had some problem with the comms," he says as if they haven't known it already. "En route back to the base, ETA…"

She laughs out loud in relief.

* * *

She waits for him to finish his report right in front Coulson's office, walking to and fro impatiently.

She just… needs him. Needs to feel him, hold him, have him, know that he's there and he's okay ( _damn roller-coaster of a day, damn hormones, damn him…_ ).

She wastes no time when he finally comes out – she grabs his collar, pulls him and down and kisses him, deep and frantic and desperate, pushing her body against his, making it clear what she wants.

"Please," she begs, pulling his lower lip between her teeth as he grips her hips. "Grant, please…"

He groans into her mouth.

"Yes," he agrees, but then pushes her away, shaking his head, as if to clear it. "Yes, a million times yes, but not here," he says looking around cautiously, as if he was afraid of being caught (well, she can kind of understand that).

"Okay," she nods, swallowing, desire burning in her veins. "Not here."

* * *

Their bunk has never seemed to be this far before.

She is panting and ready to combust by the time they reach it, and as soon as the door closes behind them, she is ripping his clothes off, having no patience for finery right now.

Thankfully, he catches up to her urgency quickly; his lips attacking her neck, sucking and licking and biting, leaving marks, he strokes her fire with practiced touch, pulling off her sweater and playing with her breasts, his thumb finding the sensitive peaks in no time.

He's barely touched her yet, and she is already moaning and chanting his name.

* * *

Finally, they are naked, falling into bed (she is wet, achingly so, and his member is hard against her stomach).

On a normal night, she'd try to be playful, prolong the foreplay – she'd push his head between her breasts, laughing, or would slide down and take him into her mouth, just to see him squirm. Or maybe it would be him going down on her, keeping her still with his strong arms as he licks her, making her come once, twice, before having mercy on her, and sliding home.

On any other night, she loves these little games.

But tonight, she just wants him, she just wants the rush, the connection, the reassurance.

She wants him, alive and warm and pulsing with wild energy under her fingertips.

So she pushes him down to the pillows, climbs over him, grabs his erection, steadying him, then takes him in in one long stroke, throwing her head back.

* * *

Once two bodies as one, she leans forward, almost lying on top of him as she starts to move – small, rocking movements as he helps him, matching thrust for thrust.

The urgency suddenly gone, they move slow, not rushing towards the end, lengthening the moment.

His hands are everywhere – on her ass, on her thighs, the curve of her waist, down her shoulder blades, along her spine. On her clit, rubbing, stroking, teasing.

His lips are everywhere – on her shoulders, sucking at her neck, lovingly brushing the sensitive skin, on her jaw, on her lips, kissing, kissing her as if he was a drowning man, and she the last drop of water on Earth.

* * *

When she comes, she comes slowly, then suddenly – there's a slow build up, a tightening starting from her core, spreading slowly in her whole body, reaching even her fingertips, and she just can't take it anymore and she shatters.

Her whole body spams, and her walls grip him, and her back arches, and his name is on her lips, and her thoughts are beautifully meddled with pleasure, and it's too glorious to describe.

She can feel him fall over the edge, too – his body tensing, his grip on her hips strong, mouth opening in a silent shout, shooting his seed deep into her body. (She hopes it's just as good for him as it is for her.)

* * *

Afterwards, they lie side by side in the bed, turned towards each other, finger interlocked.

She is blinking sleepily at him, she is sated, calm, happy – she has him, whole and unharmed, and that's the only thing that matters.

He smiles at her before he slides his hand down, smoothing his palm over the slight curve of her belly, the loving touch somehow bringing back the terrors of the afternoon.

Tears well in her eyes.

"I was terrified today," she confesses in a whisper.

He nods, understanding; his Adam's apple bobs as he swallows.

"I know."

"I thought I lost you, and I…" she sniffles. "We can't. We can't lose you. We need you."

He pulls her close, until her head is pillowed on his chest.

"You won't," he promises, stroking her hair. "You won't, I'm here, I'm not going anywhere. I promise. I'll always be here for you."

And as silly as it is, she believes him.


	73. Playing Dirty

**A/N:** Sorry for the delay, but I hope this story was worth the wait :)

* * *

 **Playing Dirty**

Grant was absolutely sure about one thing: Skye was sent to him by some higher power – it's just he hadn't managed to figure out yet whether it was Heaven – to save him –, or Hell – to torment him.

"Are you busy?" she asked, standing opposite of him and leaning over the table in the Bus's command center.

He resisted looking up. He'd made that mistake before – he glanced up when she entered, and that one glance was enough to assess that she was only wearing a thin, white tank top, with no bra underneath. All within reach. Things had been a tad uncomfortable for him ever since.

"Rather busy," he replied, eyes firmly glued to the touchscreen as he typed in another coordinate. He really was busy – HQ wanted these tactical reports by the next morning, so he'd better finish them soon, and… Yeah. He was busy. He had no time to play games right now (no matter how much he wanted to play, especially with her).

"It's a shame," Skye cooed, squirming a little in the corner of his vision. He could practically see her breasts pushed together as she rested her elbows on the table, which made him gulp. He had absolutely no illusions about her noticing it. "Because I thought…" She stepped around the table, getting closer to him, moving in a tantalizingly slow pace (okay, so today she was playing dirty), "…that since we have the Bus for ourselves for a bit, we could have a little… fun."

Damn her. Why did she have to have such great ideas, presented in such an alluring voice?

"Sorry," he managed to croak out. "Maybe later," he added with considerable effort, because he had an idea of what she had in mind, and damn, he was all up for it.

"But don't you want to take a break?" She insisted in a tone that let him know that she knew she was winning. "I'm sure you have more than deserved it. And we wouldn't even have to move from here – I could help you relax right here."

By then she was standing right next to him, so close that he could feel her body heat radiating from her body. Yep, she was winning.

"I don't think that Coulson would appreciate if we desecrated his command center," he said bluntly with a resigned sigh, trying to sound reasonable, before looking up. It was a mistake – up this close he could see her dark nipples, hardened to pebbles in the cool room, peeking through the thin fabric of her tank. He swallowed hard.

"What Coulson doesn't know," she said, trailing a finger down his arm, "that doesn't hurt him," she smiled at him coyly.

That was it; even he had his limits.

Reports to be damned (he'd finish them later), he grabbed her hips and pulled her close, attacking her lips with his own – thankfully she'd been expecting this, so she moved in synch with him, raising her head and offering herself to him, while her hands found their way under his shirt, pushing the fabric up as she clawed at his abs, making him growl.

God, this girl knew how to play him and get him worked up in the matter of seconds.

Thankfully he had enough common sense left to turn off the table first, before he reached under her thighs and hoisted her onto the table to gain better access. She used this momentary pause in their kiss to pull off his shirt – he didn't complain, in fact, he helped her shrug it off then toss it to the corner of the table before, inspired by her actions, he pushed her tank up, freeing her breast and burying his face between the soft mounds, while simultaneously grinding his denim-clad groin against her core, making her slide her fingers into his hair and throw her head back, moaning in ecstasy.

He had to admit, he was rather enjoying himself (not that it was news – sex with Skye had always been spectacular). But christening the command center – an area of the Bus all of them frequently used – was new, and he would have been lying if he said it didn't excite him.

Raising his head from between her breasts, he moved his mouth to her neck, sucking at the delicate skin there, making her squirm, while his fingers played with her nipples, pinching and rolling them between his fingertips. She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him against her, so he could feel the heat radiating from her core even through the layers of fabric separating them, and this sweet torture made his cock twitch.

He gently peeled her legs from his body then, stepping back and reaching for her belt, eager to get her jeans off and get a taste of her and make her scream his name and–

He froze, listening.

No, he shook his head – it was just his minds playing tricks on him, nobody was on the Bus, just the two of them…

And then again.

"What?" Skye asked, sounding a bit annoyed as her hands sneaked around him and slid into the back pockets of his jeans, squeezing his ass.

Footsteps.

"Somebody's coming," he whispered, then, in his suddenly raising panic, he lifted Skye from the table and, quite ungracefully, dropped her to the floor in front of him, so the table concealed her from anybody entering the room. (He really didn't need Coulson to catch then _in flagrante delicto_. He was on thin ice with his commanding officer as it is.)

Skye was just about to complain, but the next moment somebody really did poke his head into the command center – only it wasn't Coulson.

"Hi," Fitz blinked at him in surprise. "What are you doing here? And why are you shirtless?" he asked Grant, eyebrows rising.

Time to call his training to mind.

"Reports," Grant said in a slightly strained voice. "I'm writing reports for HQ. And I… I spilled coffee on my shirt," he added, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible – as if it was completely normal to stand shirtless in the deserted command center.

Fitz blinked, trying to process this, then his gaze flickered towards the bunched up white fabric on the table's closest corner to him.

"Oh, that sucks," he said, his voice full of sympathy, not even registering that there were no coffee mugs in the room – he had either just woken up and was still groggy, or his mind was too preoccupied with coming up with some new gadget to function properly. Either way, it was working for Grant's favor. "Do you want me to soak it for you?" he asked helpfully.

"No, thanks," Grant said, quickly snatching up the garment from the table before Fitz could have picked it up and realized that there were, in fact, no stains on it. "I'll do it in a moment, I'll just finish my reports first."

Fitz blinked at the table.

"The table is turned off," Fitz observed, stepping closer.

"Yeah, it's, er…" Grant stuttered, trying to sound not too guilty. "I had to restart it. There were some problems with the software."

"Really?" Fitz mused – thankfully still seeming to be completely oblivious to the situation –, then moved to step beside Grant. "Do you need any help with it?"

"No!" Grant said maybe a little too quickly, stopping Fitz. "I mean, no, thanks," he corrected himself, running a hand through his hair. "It's okay. It works now, see?" He said, turning the table on as demonstration. "I'll ask Skye to take a look at it later."

And speaking of Skye…

Although she was completely silent and managed to keep mostly still until this point, not giving her presence away, now he could feel her skillful little hands ghosting around his groin, grabbing his zipper and pulling it down tooth by tooth.

His whole body tensed.

The idea was more than appreciated, and in any other situation he would have eagerly buried his hand in her long locks, encouraging her, because damn, there were things she could do with her mouth, but now – _really, Skye?_

Yes, she was definitely going to be the death of him.

Not being able to bat her away without drawing attention to her presence, he clenched his jaw and tried to remain unresponsive while looking Fitz in the eye.

 _He was so going to make her pay for this._

"O-okay" Fitz said tentatively. "Where is she, anyway?"

"I have no idea," Grant answered, his voice rising with the last word as Skye pulled him free and ran a finger along his length. _Damn that woman_.

"Huh," Fitz said simply, giving him a little shrug. "I'll tell her you are looking for her if I see her, okay?"

"Thanks, Fitz," Grant nodded at him, his voice a little strained, as it was the exact moment when Skye thought it was time to take him into her mouth. He almost groaned out loud when her lips wrapped around him.

"It's nothing," Fitz assured him, smiling, then jerked a thumb towards his bunk. "I'll just quickly grab something from my bunk, then I'll be down in the lab if you need me," he told him, waited for Grant's acknowledging nod, then turned around and left the command center.

Grant counted to ten in mind – which was a difficult task in itself, because he was half sure he didn't have enough blood left in his head for his brain to function –, waiting for Fitz to get out of hearing range, then leaned down, grabbed Skye's elbows, and helped her to her feet (he groaned at the loss of contact).

She look entirely too innocent and too proud of herself as he looked into her eyes.

"You vixen," he told her in the sternest voice he could muster, making her grin at him mischievously. "One day you're going to destroy me."

She almost laughed out loud.

"Don't tell me you didn't enjoy it?" she asked, sneaking a hand down between them, wrapping her fingers around him.

He thought it'd be in his best interest no to answer that.

He grabbed her wrist, pulling her hand away from him (God, he missed her touch right away), then looked over her shoulder to see if Fitz was gone by then. The coast clear, he turned her around, and playfully slapped her butt.

"You, to your bunk," he told her. "I'll be with you in five minutes."

She looked back from the door of the command center, giving him a grin that told him he was in trouble.

"I'll be waiting for you," she winked, then she was gone.

Grant sighed, tucking himself back into his pants. He had a total of five minutes to come up with something to repay her favor – although, to be honest, he was sure she'd already won this round.

(And he was also absolutely positive that she would be completely naked and waiting for him when he got to her bunk – a mental picture that made it extremely difficult for him to think.)


	74. Man's Best Friend

**A/N:** Sorry for the delay once more – this story was not cooperating with me at all. I started writing it twice yesterday, and scrapped both versions. Maybe this one will work.

* * *

 **Man's Best Friend**

"Missy, no!" Skye hissed at the big golden-coated dog, who was so happy to see her mistress home that she almost knocked Skye over – and coming very near to send the grocery bags in her arms flying – in her enthusiastic jumping. Skye frowned at the dog; she had been all for it when Andrew suggested they got a dog – a sort of therapy animal to help Grant process his past traumas. Hell, she even backed up the idea that they should get one from the shelter. And okay, she might have fallen in love with this crazy mutt, too. But damn it – technically she was Grant's dog, and it was high time he taught her some discipline.

Putting the grocery bags on the counter with a little bit more force than necessary, she turned out of the kitchen, bellowing "Grant!"

The man in question poked his head out of the living room right away.

"Yes?"

Skye didn't answer; simply stood in the hallway, an impatient grimace on her face, as Missy circled around her, her tail waggling, trying to jump on her.

"Oh," he said, stepping out to the hallway, and grabbing the dog by her collar. "I swear I have been working with her," he said earnestly, leading Missy into the living room. "I really have – come, I'll show how much she's progressed." Skye stood there for a moment longer, hesitating – she had other stuff to do, really, like unpacking the groceries, and writing that report Coulson had realized today that he needed for yesterday, but then Grant's tentative, pleading "Skye?" got her moving.

Once in the living room Grant made her sit on the couch, told her to get comfortable, then called Missy, and the two of them started their little show.

Skye had to admit, Missy was a lot more well behaved with Grant than with her. He obviously knew something about how to train dogs (but then again – he had trained her, and she had been a lot more difficult than an overeager dog), because Missy needed no more than a simple sign from him to know what to do. To one wave of his arm, Missy sat, rolled over, gave a five, and even jumped up, putting her front paws around Grant's waist.

So, okay, they were cute. Adorable even, from Missy's floppy ears to Grant's dorkish grin. So adorable that Skye couldn't stop herself from forgetting her annoyance, and start grinning and clapping when to a swirl of Grant's hand, Missy turned around, as if chasing her own tail in slow motion. And she couldn't help but laugh out loud when the dog even made a little bow towards her.

"Okay, you won," she told Grant after the bow, grinning wildly. "This dog is a freaking genius. Now of only you could get her to listen to me a little bit…" she said, standing up from the couch, but Grant stopped her.

"Wait!" he said. "Sit back. There's one more trick we'd like to show you."

Skye grinned at him cheekily, but did what she had been told, and watched as Grant crouched down next to the sitting dog. Grant glanced at Missy, then at her, some unreadable light dancing in his eyes.

"Close your eyes!" Grant told her suddenly.

"What?" she chuckled.

"It's just… I need you to close your eyes for a moment. Could you, please? For me."

Skye let out a little sigh, but let her eyelids drop, and raised her hands to cover her eyes. She could hear Grant take a deep breath, along with Missy's panting and the rustle of clothing. Then a moment of silence, before she heard Missy's steps on the floorboards, her claws clinking against the wood. Finally, a whispered command ("Sit!"), and then Grant saying, "You can open them now."

And she did, a smile in the corner of her mouth, and at first she had no idea what she should be seeing – Missy was sitting right in front of her, alright, and–

Damn it.

Double damn it.

Now she could see it, and honestly, she had no idea how she hadn't noticed before.

There a little object resting in the ridge of Missy's snout – a little, sparkling object.

A ring. A diamond ring, to be exact. A diamond ring that couldn't have been anything, but…

"You are honestly proposing by using our dog as a wingman?" she blurted out in surprise.

Two steps from her, Grant stood up from his crouch, and although she could see that he was trying to keep his expression calm, the slight flush creeping up his cheeks gave him away.

"I thought it would be cute?" he said, trying to sound confident, but his sentence ended up more like a question in his sudden shyness.

Skye didn't know whether she should laugh or jump up and hug and kiss the living daylight out of him. So she decided to do both.

Snatching the ring from Missy's nose before she could drop it, Skye leaped from the couch.

"Oh, come here, you… you…" she stuttered, looking for the right word, closing her fingers around the ring. "You beautiful dork!" She said at last, throwing her arms around his neck and pulling herself up so she could kiss him. Stunned into stillness for a moment, he didn't react, but then kissed her back with the same passion.

"So?" he said a little breathless when they pulled apart. "What do you say?"

It was not nice, she admits, but she just couldn't stop herself from teasing him a bit.

"I don't know… I mean you haven't even exactly asked. And this ring is not even my style…" Seeing his face tighten and panic rising in his eyes, she decided to take mercy on him. She laughed out loud. "Of course I'm gonna marry you, your idiot!" And then kissed him again.

Missy, as if she knew what was going on, let out a loud, happy bark, giving them her blessing.


	75. Slaying Dragons in Dudgeons

**A/N:** As a foreword – all of my knowledge of Dudgeons and Dragons come from The Big Bang Theory. I do, however, own a copy of Firefly – the Boardgame.

* * *

 **Slaying Dragons in Dudgeons**

Grant liked board games, that was a fact. Battleship? Awesome. Monopoly? Sure. Cluedo? Absolutely.

But this? This was a nightmare.

It was Fitz's turn to choose their game night – this time just the four of them, sans Coulson and May -, and to Grant's utter surprise, he chose _Dungeons and Dragons_ (Grant had no idea they had the game aboard to begin with), and while he was thriving in his role of game master, Grant even had problems with understanding the character sheet in front of him (there were a lot of boxes and numbers, and why the hell they needed so many dice?).

And, apparently, he was alone with this problem.

"Okay, okay, okay," Skye said excitedly, pushing her hair back from eyes and leaning forward in her seat. "I step forward and knock on the door."

Fitz nodded solemnly, threw his dice, consulted with the charts in front of him, and said "And the door opens, letting you in."

"Yes!" Skye exclaimed, throwing her fist into the air, making Grant groan – honestly, what was such a big deal about it?

"Ward, your turn," he heard Fitz's voice, pulling him back to the game. He shook his head, focusing on the board.

"I, um… I follow Skye through the door?" he said.

Fitz repeated his little ritual – nod, throw, consult.

"The door slams closed right in front of you."

"What?" he snapped, almost knocking over the pieces on the board.

"Sorry, Ward," Fitz said with an apologetic little shrug. "I don't decide — the dice do."

Next to him, Skye shook with suppressed laughter.

"Sorry, sorry," she said, touching Grant's knee when he turned towards her, expression tense. "It's just I can totally see your face when the door is shut right before you. I can even imagine it hitting your nose."

Grant pulled his eyebrows together in mock-annoyance, but even he couldn't stop the corner of his mouth twitch into a smile.

"Oh, that's how we are, now?" he asked, trying to sound stern. "I guess then I'm adding twenty push ups to your morning workout."

Skye gasped and put her hand over her heart in an overdramatic gesture.

"You wouldn't."

"I would," Grant assured her, chuckling lightly.

(That was the point when Fitz was about to interrupt their exchange and remind them that they were in the middle of a game, but Jemma put her hand on his forearm, stopping him.)

"Okay, then what about a deal?" Skye tried, sitting back a little. "I help you with the game, and you forgo those extra push ups."

Grant pretended to consider it for a moment, then nodded, offering his hand to her.

"It's a deal."

Skye grinned and took it.

"Great choice, young padawan," she said, sliding closer to him on the couch. "Now, let's see…"

With Skye's help he soon got a better understanding of the game (and learned that she had used to play it with some of her old Rising Tide buddies, that's why she was so familiar with the game), and even managed to take active part in slaying the arch enemy. He would have even dared to say that he ended up enjoying the game.

"It wasn't even that bad now, was it?" Skye asked him with a faint smile on her face after the game had been packed away.

Grant returned her smile.

"It wasn't exactly my style, but… it was fun," he admitted, making her smile even more brightly.

"Awesome," she replied, biting into her lower lip. "Okay, so next game night it's my turn to choose a game, and I was thinking maybe we should play _Firefly_? What do you say?"

Grant gave her a little shrug.

"Can I expect your help with that, too? Because if yes, I'm all in."

"Oh, sure you can," she grinned. "We will totally team up and destroy FitzSimmons, I'm telling you!"

He had no idea how they were going to manage that, but he was all for finding it out – especially if he could watch Skye smile like this during that game, too.

(Later on, down in the lab, Fitz and Simmons had a throughout discussion about whether Skye and Ward realized that they were flirting with each other, and they came to the conclusion that no, they didn't.)


	76. First Day Jitters

**First Day Jitters**

"You know, sweetheart, you don't have to do this," Grant says in a calm, reassuring voice, holding her hand and looking into her eyes. "If you have any doubts, any fears, we can go home now. We can wait another year."

Haylie rolls her eyes impatiently, a gesture he's sure she has learned from her mother.

"But daddy," she says, pouting slightly and an inch away from stomping. "I really, really wanna go!"

Grant lets out a defeated sigh.

"But if you change your mind…" he tries, adjusting the straps of her tiny, pink backpack as he kneels in front of his daughter.

"I won't," Haylie cuts in confidently. "Daddy, don't worry, I'll be okay," she tells him, patting his forearm as if their roles were reversed. He can hear Skye snicker from behind him.

"Remember what we talked about, baby," Skye steps forward now, drawing their daughter's attention to her. "Be nice to the other kids, pay attention, behave, and have fun. We'll come and pick you up in the afternoon. Now, come here, give mommy a kiss!" she tells Haylie, and the little girl does what she's been told; she steps into Skye's embrace, putting her little arms around her neck, and places a sloppy kiss on her cheek, then she turns to Grant and repeats the process, before running towards the direction of her new classroom. She stops at the door for a moment, turns back towards them, and waves, grinning wildly, before she steps into the room, disappearing from their vision.

Grant stays there, kneeling on the ground and looking after her for a couple of seconds. Damn, she is growing up too fast.

"I still don't like it," he says finally, standing up. "She is too young – she's just barely turned five. We should have waited one more year."

Hearing this, Skye just rolls her eyes, an eerie echo of what their daughter just did a minute ago.

"You might have missed it," she says, her voice dripping sarcasm, "but your daughter is freaking smart and more than ready for school. She reads, for heaven's sake!"

Grant swallows; yeah, there might be something true about that. Haylie got an alphabet book for her birthday from FitzSimmons, something she was really thrilled about. And it was almost scary how fast she was picking things up – now, three months later, she knows the whole alphabet, and now she is starting to read and write simpler words, which makes Grant simultaneously proud and frightened.

"It's just…" he sighs. "I can't believe she is growing up this fast."

Skye's playful smirk is replaced with a soft, earnest smile as she puts her hand on his arm.

"Hey," she tells him, "she might be going to school now – and I know this is frightening –, but she'll always be your princess, okay?"

Grant gives her a reluctant nod as he slides his arm around her waist.

"She'd better," he mutters under his breath, making Skye laugh as they start walking back towards their car.

"You know what?" she says after a couple of seconds; Grant gives her a little nod, urging her to go on. "Now I'm really glad we are onto project baby #3," she says in a teasing tone. "Because I remember what you did when Haylie started walking, and if we weren't in full baby-making mode, I'm afraid this would be the point when you finally convince me that we really need another kid."

He doesn't even try to argue with her as he opens the passenger side door for her.


	77. Tit for Tat

**Tit for Tat**

One moment she is grinning to herself, watching him through the backscatter glasses, the next she is hastily pulling them off of her face, trying to hide them under her pillow, because damn, Ward is coming towards her.

She is not fast enough – the door of her bunk (damn those things, not having locks because of _safety reasons_ ) opens, and here stands Agent Grant Ward, in his six feet two entirety, looking down at her with a frown on his face, obviously knowing that she is up to something.

Well, the fact that she has the backscatter glasses – which she was supposed to put into storage hours ago – in her grip, trying to shove it under her pillow, while her laptop is open right next to her, doesn't help her case a bit.

Yep. She's screwed.

There's another like two seconds of complete, stunned silence (during which she swears she can see Ward's nostrils flare), and then he speaks.

"Up," he says simply, waving to her, but not reaching out to grab and drag her, which, she thinks, is a good sign. Still, he looks pissed, so she complies, putting the glasses on her shelf, closing the lid of the laptop, and finally standing up, following him out of her bunk.

He takes her to the Cage, which is both reassuring and frightening – reassuring, because it's soundproof, so if he is going to make a scene, nobody else is going to hear it, and frightening because, hello, it's soundproof. No-one's gonna hear her scream.

He is still intently staring at her as he closes the door, which, yeah, does make her feel a bit uneasy. Scared, you could say. She sits down on the chair to regain some resemblance of coolness, only to realize a moment later that she's put herself into an even more submissive position.

Damn it.

Ward doesn't sit.

"Do you want to tell me what were you doing?"

It's not a request; it's an order, and she is sure she will be dead if she doesn't comply. So she swallows and starts talking.

"I was going to help Fitz cheat." _That's it, Skye; dig an even deeper hole for yourself._ "It's just…" she rambles. "He really wanted to beat you at poker, and it seemed like a good idea at the time… But then of course he chickened out when I told him that then I'd be seeing him naked, so… yeah, I should stop talking," she finishes, biting into her lip.

She is dead, she thinks, but then she sees something akin to a smile tugging at Ward's lips that makes her think that he won't murder her after all.

"And yet you still had the glasses in your hand when I opened your door – when Fitz was already gone for some time."

Skye gulps.

Guilty.

For a moment he plays with the idea of acting cool – then drops it right away. Her palms are sweating under his stare (and okay, heat might have started pooling in other parts of her, too, with him in so close proximity). No way to sell the cool act.

So she goes flirty instead.

"Yeah, well, I couldn't really pass the opportunity…" she says, leaning forward a bit and putting her arms in a way that they push her boobs together. Ward seemed to enjoy the view a couple of weeks back, after all.

He still seems to enjoy it, in fact; she can see his Adam's apple bob nervously.

"Do you have any idea how many protocols you have just broken?" Ward says, but his voice somehow lacks the… conviction, the sharpness, for her to be really scared. "Not to mention invading my privacy."

Okay, so he might have a point here (but then again – a guy with a physique like his should be only allowed to walk around at least half-naked), so she actually casts her eyes down in regret. The next moment she is just about to say that she is sorry, but then she gets a better idea.

Eye for an eye, right?

Before Ward could comprehend what's happening, she is reaching for the hem of her shirt, and pulling it over her head.

She can hear his sharp intake of breath and when she looks up he is actually blushing. Agent Grant Ward, super spy extraordinaire is actually blushing because a pretty girl is taking off her clothes in front of him.

He is so cute it's not even funny.

"What…" he starts, then stops and swallows. She can imagine that his mouth is suddenly dry. "What are you doing?"

She shrugs, reaching behind her to unclasp her bra.

"Well, tit for tat, right? I got to see you naked, sort of, so it's only fair that I let you sneak a peek too, right?"

He actually looks away (cheeks still flaming). Damn it – T-1000 is an actual gentleman.

"Put them back on," he says, not looking at her. "Please. And think about what you have done." And with that he reaches for the door, but then stops for one more second. "And put the glasses in storage, right away. I mean it," he adds, not looking at her, and then he is out of the Cage.

She smirks to herself as she puts her shirt back on, feeling like she has won this round – but then why does she feel slightly disappointed?

* * *

There's a knock – an actual knock – on her bunk door later, much later that night. It's Ward on the other side, looking almost bashful.

"It's not that I would mind that much you seeing me naked," he tells her when she opens the door, "or that I wouldn't like to see _you_ naked. It's just… can we at least have some coffee first?"

She almost bursts out laughing.

"You wanna date?"

He scratches the back of his neck.

"Maybe?

It takes all of her willpower not to kiss him right there (who would have thought that the Robot could be this adorable? And the only thing she had to do was sneak a peek of him and flash him some bra…)


	78. The Little Things

**The Little Things**

She wakes to feathery light touches – his fingertips are like butterfly wings fluttering against her naked skin.

Her back turned to him, so he can't see, she smiles, but doesn't say a word, letting him believe that she's still asleep (after all, he did exhaust her); she doesn't want to disturb his explorations.

He is gentle, almost tentative, almost as if he wouldn't dare to touch her, afraid she'll break, or just disappear – turn to smoke and fly away, like she did so many times in his dreams. (Which is stupid; they just made love hours ago. She bears marks on her neck shaped like his lips.)

He draws one single fingertip down the inward curve of her waist, raising goosebumps in its wake. She sighs contently.

She can feel him tense for a second, then, without turning around, she knows he is grinning.

"What's on your mind?" she asks softly, giving up all pretenses of sleep.

He doesn't answer right away; his fingers go missing, and she can feel the mattress dip as he moves. The next moment his fingers are on the back of her neck, brushing her hair aside, and then his lips are on the sensitive skin.

She smiles into her pillow.

"You are beautiful," he breathes into her ear.

She turns around, facing him.

"And it took you this long to realize that?" She just can't help teasing him.

He grins down at her, silly, smitten.

"No; it's just I'm learning to appreciate the small things only now."

She pulls her brows together, and pushes herself to her elbows.

"So we are back to me being small?"

He chuckles; she is starting to realize she is falling in love with this sound.

"No, I mean…" he pauses and leans down, kissing her right under her jaw. "You tremble," he says when he pulls away. "When I kiss you right there, you tremble. And here…" His fingers wander to her right hip, caressing the skin. "You have these freckles here that look like a part of a constellation. And your hair…" He slides his fingers into her locks. "I love how the light plays on your curls. It brings out so many colors." Pulling her head gently back, he kisses her. "And then my hand just fits everywhere… Here…" He puts it on the curve of her waist. "Here…" He cups her breast. "And even here…" he finishes, putting his hand on her mound, slipping a finger between her folds. She gasps and grabs his wrist, keeping him firmly in place. "These are the small I love so much – these, and so much more. These are the things that make you beautiful. That make you you."

She wants to reply with a sarcastic remark, but she just can't; she just can't ruin the moment. She just gazes into his eyes for an endless second, then takes his face into her hands, his stubble rough under her fingertips, and kisses him, trying to put all her love and passion into that kiss.

She flips them over easily; a little push against the shoulder and he is already settling back against the pillows, letting her – helping her – climb on top of him. As soon as she has her legs on the two sides of his hips, he places his hands on her waist, anchoring her.

"And now?" he asks, smiling, his thumbs drawing little spirals into her skin.

She smirks and licks her lips.

"And now I'm going to show you all the little things I love about you."

And she does.


	79. Making a Mistake

**Making a Mistake**

When they are finally safely in the air, flying away from South Ossetia, when everything of importance is said and done, and his presence is no longer required, the first thing Grant does is to head for the shower – he has nothing else on his mind than washing away the filth of the last two days, the dust and the sweat and the blood and the reek of the cheap vodka.

In the tiny bathroom of the Bus, he tunes everything out; for a couple of minutes, it's just him, no threats, no aching readiness in his muscles, no walls around him. There, even if only for a little while, he can relax. Maybe that's why he doesn't realize that there's somebody else in the room with him until the door of the shower cubicle opens, and his intruder steps into the small enclosed area to share it with him.

He tenses right away and turns to face them, only to find himself face to face with her.

With Skye.

She is standing right in front of him, close enough to touch, so close, too close, nude as the day she was born, the droplets from the showerhead already clinging to her skin and hair, resting on her lashes like tiny diamonds.

His breath catches in his throat.

"What…" he starts, but she interrupts him.

"I…" she looks away, almost shy (but not so shy to be ashamed of her nakedness), then reaches for his hand, taking the bar of soap from him without a word. "I thought I lost you, today, and I think it has just sunk in," she tells him slow and calm and soft, raising the soap to his shoulder and running it down his bicep; his muscles twitch under her gentle touch. "And I can make jokes about it, but…" she sighs, her chest rising with her breath; he can't help it – he looks down, enticed by the roundness of her breasts. "But I don't know what I would have done if you didn't come back. I don't know if…" she trails off, running the soap down his chest, down the contour of his pectorals, down the flat planes of his stomach, down to trail of sparse, dark hair under his navel.

He grabs her wrist.

"What are you doing here?" he asks. His heartbeat quickens, and he is painfully aware of everything around him, about her – he feels her pulse beating wildly under his fingertips, he feels as she trembles despite the hot mist in the cubicle, sees her eyes, pupils wide and infinitely black with desire, and sees her lips tremble slightly in fear, in excitement, in anticipation.

She looks into his eyes, for the first time since she stepped into the shower.

"I think I'm making a mistake," she says, her eyes boring into his.

The next moment she is rising to her tiptoes, and he freezes; he stands completely still as she puts her hands on his shoulder, rising taller, her lips nearing his.

There's hesitation; their breaths mingling, but lips not touching, she moves to reach him several times, but always draws back, unsure, tentative. Their mouths millimeters from each other, her eyes half-hooded and her lips slightly apart (he just cannot not notices these little things, nor the barely visible freckles over the bridge of her nose, or all the colors in her irises), they are so close that their bodies press together, the soft peaks of her breasts against his hard muscles.

There's only so long he can stand this torture.

He breaks first; grabs the back of her head, her hair wet under his fingers, and pulls her close – the soap drops to the floor –, claiming her lips she offered so kindly.

Their kiss is not tentative at all; the moment their mouths meet, it's a mad flurry of lips and teeth and tongues and sighs and moans. It's wild and passionate and nothing like a first kiss should go; he doesn't mind at all.

Her hands are frantic, reaching everywhere – cupping his face and sliding into his hair, clutching his shoulders and sliding down his chest. He pulls her close, pressing their bodies together, his arms around her waist. It's a wild dance, something that has been long time coming if he is being honest with himself, but still astonishing.

The moment she sinks her teeth into his lower lip is the moment he gives up all resemblance of control. He growls into her mouth and sneaks his hand under her thighs, lifting her and pressing her back against the wall of the shower. She grips his shoulders to steady herself, and wraps her legs around his waist, pulling an earlobe between her teeth, nibbling on it in an almost encouraging way.

Not that he needs encouragement.

Steadying himself with one hand, he slides into her welcoming heat the next moment – he has been hard since the moment she touched him –, making her let out a soft cry of ecstasy as her walls clamp around him.

It's indescribable, how it feels to be inside her, being enveloped by her from the tip of his member to the base of it, his pubic bone pressing against hers. It almost makes him go crazy with pleasure.

He doesn't give her time to adjust to the size of him, but starts moving right away. There's nothing gentle or romantic about it – he pounds into her, hard and fast, wild and passionate, gripping her waist with enough force to leave bruises. Not that she seems to mind it – her legs are tight around his waist, her nails are drawing angry, red lines into his skin over his shoulder blades, while she pants and moans and cries into his ear, asking – begging – for more.

So he gives it to her.

He knows he won't last long; he is worked up, high on adrenaline, but tired, exhausted, sore from the mission. He is desperate to finish, to experience that sweet abandon of pleasure – to experience it with her –, so he reaches down and finds her clit, rubbing it with his thumb roughly, coaxing her along towards her own climax, while murmuring the lovers' nonsense into her ear.

It works; soon she tightens around him, her whole body tensing, and then she is falling over the edge, her walls gripping then releasing him, then gripping again in a wild rhythm, her nails digging even deeper into his flesh (even the pain feels good when it's her inflicting it), chanting his name (the others might hear it; he doesn't care).

And then he is coming to, shooting his seed into her still pulsating core, his mind going blank, his world shrinking to her, to her soft, warm body and enticing curves and silky skin and honest eyes and loving heart. He comes silent, but holding her close, as if he never wants to let her go again.

(He never wants to let her go ever again.)

* * *

Minutes later she is sitting on the counter, her body lax, still naked, hair still wet, but a towel wrapped around her shoulders and a soft, sated smile on her face.

He can't help but smile back as he steps between her legs and rests his forehead against hers.

"It wasn't a mistake," he whispers before kissing her.


	80. Birthday Mischief

**Birthday Mischief**

Skye's been grinning like a madwoman all throughout morning workout, and yeah, it's putting him on edge a bit, because she is usually not this cheery in the morning.

So something is up.

"What's going on?" he asks, trying to sound not too harsh as he steadies the bag for her.

"Nothing," she replies, only meeting his eyes for the briefest second, then goes on grinning.

"Skye…" now, there's a clear not of warning in his voice.

Her hands drop.

"It's you birthday!" she tells him, grinning wildly. "Cheer up a bit!"

There's a beat of silence, then "You read my file." It's not a question or an accusation, just a simple statement.

"Only the non-classified parts!" she defends herself, smile still apparent n her face. "The parts about basic stuff like your height and blood type, and yeah, your birth date. And really, why didn't you tell me it was your birthday?" she demands.

He shrugs.

"It's not important; I don't celebrate it." _When nobody cares about it, it doesn't even worth remembering_ , he thinks, but doesn't say out loud.

"It's not…" she starts, echoing his words, but then stops in a breathless gasp. "Take it from someone who doesn't know her actual birthday – these things are absolutely important, and should be celebrated – cherished, even!"

He actually rewards her outburst with an amused smirk.

"Really, I don't care. It's just another day; drop it." Then nods towards the bag, considering the topic closed. "Ten minutes. Go!"

* * *

Of course she doesn't drop it; not that he expected her to – Skye's like a bulldog that way: if she takes something into her mind, she'll carry that through even if it kills her.

She tries to be subtle about it, naturally, but he is not the best since Romanoff to not to notice the signs, for example that she is pointedly avoiding him, or that Simmons grins at him when he goes down to the lab, or that Fitz suddenly needs him to test the new version of the ICER (so yeah, Skye has roped in the science duo as well).

Also, the fact that he catches her not so subtly humming the Pink Panther theme song in the lounge is kind of a giveaway, too.

But he has to give it to her: he doesn't actually know what she is planning; some kind of surprise, that for sure, but as for the nature of it, he has no idea. Still, he doesn't even try to stop her – he knows that whatever she is planning, she is doing it out of love, because she would like to be nice to him. So he lets her have her fun.

(Also, to be honest, he finds himself kind of looking forward to it.)

* * *

By the time evening comes, he is half-sure he has just imagined the whole thing. After all, it's already seven p.m., and nothing has happened yet. He must have misread the signs.

But then as he is going back to his bunk in the evening, he catches all three of the possible culprits lazing around the lounge, trying – and failing – to look unsuspicious. This is what tells him that, without doubt, something is up.

They have come up with something big, and now they can't wait to see how it goes.

He gets confirmation of it when his eyes meet Skye's as she glances up from behind her magazine. She is smirking, her eyes crinkling.

He sighs; it's time to face the music.

He turns towards the door of his bunk, mentally preparing himself – he can hear them move behind his back, trying to get a better view –, then grabs the handle and slowly slide the door open.

He is greeted by about a hundred balloons cramped into his tiny bunk – pink and purple and neon green balloons, filled with air and decorated with tiny stars and gaudy _Happy Birthday!_ inscriptions; there are so many of them that they take up all the space inside the bunk (he can't even see his bed for a second), but then as he opens the door wider, they stream out, pooling around his feet, some even rolling over to the couch.

He stands still there for a moment, amidst the dozens of brightly colored balloons. At last, he turns towards Skye, who is kneeling on the sofa, chewing in her lower lip and looking at him with amused expectancy.

She grins wildly when she sees his face.

"Happy birthday!" she tells him, obviously pleased with herself. "There's cake in the fridge."

He does the only thing that seems logical in such situations: he starts laughing.

(It takes them twenty minutes to get rid all of the balloons – save from one he puts away –, and the cake is that crappy convenience store kind with the strange aftertaste, but it still feels like the best birthday he has ever had.)


	81. Concert Date

**Concert Date**

In hindsight, it might have been a bad idea.

But he couldn't help it – when Skye agreed to going on a date with him, the elation he felt over this fact and the sheer effort of trying not to seem too eager about it was a bit too much for him; so he made some bad decision. Like giving her free reign over where they would go.

And she chose this… place. A concert at some open air music festival, low-key enough that they got tickets at practically the last minute, but popular enough that the place is crowded – which is making him jumpy. Too many people, too crowded in a small area, limited exit points… It is asking for disaster.

And it's not just the safety problems that are putting him on edge – he doesn't get the concept of having a date – a first date, nonetheless – at a concert, either. Hundreds of people watching, no privacy, too much noise to talk comfortably… (Yes, in hindsight, he should have taken the reins and organized a romantic, candlelit dinner.)

(He just wants their date to be perfect.)

But it's too late to regret it, now that they are here, standing at the exact middle of the crowd of about a thousand.

At least the music is rather pleasant – albeit way too loud for his tastes –, he'll give her that. It's some strange mixture of jazz and pop, maybe a little blues and hints of rock here and there, and although the woman singing on the stage is a complete stranger to him, her music is not – he recognizes some of her songs, as he has heard Skye play them on the Bus before.

Still, he is uneasy, and keeps looking around, searching for possible assailants.

Of course Skye picks it up.

"Hey, big guy," he turns towards him, shouting over the music. He leans close so he can hear her better. "Loosen up!" she tells him, suddenly leaning forward and pressing quick kiss right on the corner of his mouth, without having much thought about it. (His heart leaps up to his throat.) "It's your day off, have some fun! You're on a date!" she reminds him, which steals a dorkish grin to his face.

Yeah – he is on a date, with the girl of his dreams, nonetheless.

Just then a new song starts, and Skye turns back towards the stage – but not without grabbing his hand, and pulling it in front of her, so he all but embraces her from behind with one hand. He sneaks the other one around her as well without hesitation. She doesn't even stiffen, just laces their fingers together against her stomach and leans back against him, resting her head on his shoulder.

He echoes her content sigh.

Then the vocals start, and Skye of course knows the lyrics and sings along with the singer about love found, her whole body vibrating with the sound, and her hair tickles his nose and her hand is warm in his, and her body fits perfectly against his, and when she looks back at him at the chorus he suddenly feels like this song is about them. He suddenly feels like this concert wasn't even that bad idea. And he also understands why people go on concert dates.

He holds her even closer and leans a little forward, singing the chorus with her right into her ear, feeling her smile.

And he is perfectly sure he could go on singing with her for the rest of their lives.


	82. You Will Ever Be Only You to Me

**You Will Ever Be Only You to Me**

Ward might not be good at interacting with people, but he is good at reading them – it's part of the job description. And he can tell that something's up with Skye.

It's not just what she has just told him as they stand in front of the Wall of Valor, about feeling like she has cheated her way in; there's something deeper going on here, something that's really bothering her. And as stupid as he is, he just can't stand watching it; he wants to help.

He places his hand on her shoulder in a poor attempt at comforting her. She stiffens for a moment, maybe startled, but then looks up at him. There are tears in her eyes.

"Hey," he starts, but he has to swallow before he could continue. "Is everything okay?"

She makes a strange head gesture that starts off as a nod, then ends in a shake. No; everything is definitely not okay.

"It's just… ah…" she stammers, not finding the right words as she looks around in the hall, not meeting his eyes.

"You don't have to, if you don't w –" She places her hand on top of his, interrupting him.

"I want to. Just… not here?" she says in a small voice. He nods, understanding; after all, here in the Academy, even the walls tend to have ears.

They go to a nearby park – close enough on foot, but far enough to be out of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s reach –, and sit on a bench, a respectable distance between them, although he feels like the distance not just physical, but emotional as well. She still won't look at him, but stares ahead. But, at least, she starts talking a couple of seconds after sitting down.

"You know why I came here, after all, right? To find my parents" she answers her own question. "And I have been inching towards it, towards finding them, and Coulson promised he'd help, and now…" She lets out a heavy sigh. "While we were at the Academy, he and May went somewhere to track somebody who might know where I came from. And what they found… it isn't pretty."

She tells him then, she tells him everything – about the Hunan Province, about the dead agents, about the bloodshed, about how she was placed in the system, about being an 0-8-4. There are silent tears running down her face by the time she finishes it.

"I've always known… Well, I have always known that I didn't know where I came from, but this … this hit low. I mean, who the hell – or what the hell – I am? Some monster, or… or… a science experiment? Or just some unfortunate kid who was at the wrong place at the wrong time?" Even his throat tightens as she reaches up to wipe away her tears. "And I get it… I get it if you don't want to do anything with me now from now. I mean…" she sniffs. "I have been a liability from the beginning. And now I could be a ticking bomb. I'm an 0-8-4, and those things never end well, at least that's what my experience tells me."

He just can't help it; he reaches out suddenly and grabs her hand.

"Hey, look at me," he tells her, pleading, and when she doesn't comply, he takes her face in his other hand, and gently turns it towards him. "The unknown… it's not necessarily bad," he tells her with total conviction. "Like… like Thor's hammer was classified as an 0-8-4 once, and it turned out pretty good."

She lets out a teary little chuckle.

"Yeah, well, the exception makes the rule stronger."

"And then there's what we found in Peru," he goes on.

"Um, need I remind you that thing almost blew up our plane?""

"But it also brought the team together," he reasons. "Without it, we would be still bickering."

"We _are_ still bickering," she emphasizes, making him squeeze her hand.

"True, but now out of _love_ ," he says, making her laugh. "And you are missing my point here. Without it, we wouldn't have found our rhythm. It's just like you – without you, we would be just a bunch of people working together. You are the one who makes us a team."

She actually blushes at that.

"You really think that?"

"I do," he replies, looking deep into her eyes. "And you can ask anybody else on the team; they'll say the same thing. And you can be an… Asgardian or a science experiment, for us – for me – you'll always be simply Skye. Because that's the person we have come to love, and by whom we'll stand."

The corners of Skye's mouth quirk upwards.

"Even when I'm an annoying little midget who won't do what she's been told?"

He lets out a tiny chuckle.

"Even then."

She gives him a full on smile, nudges him with her elbow, then lays her head on his shoulder, lacing their fingers together.

"Thank you, Robot."

"Anytime, Rookie."


	83. Of That Light Banter Just Before Mission

**Of That Light Banter Just Before Mission**

"…Approaching target, everything's clear so far. Out," Ward says as he rolls onto the long driveway leading to the location of tonight's mission. Turning his comms off, he glances at the rearview mirror with a hint of a smile on his lips as he takes in what's on the back seat. "Is everything okay back there?"

"Why wouldn't be?" Skye's smile is flirty, challenging. She is all dressed up for the mission – perfect make-up, hair up in an elaborate do, sparkling jewels, and a red dress that hugs her curves in all the right places. The heavens help the poor souls she might target tonight – not that they stand a chance.

"Just don't get too cocky, Rookie," he reminds her, trying to act stern, but he can't keep the smile out of his voice. Because damn, she is a vision; but it's not just the elegant, but provocative style of her cover – it's her confidence. That does it for him.

"I'm not. And don't worry – it'll be an easy one. I'll handle it just fine."

He knows she will; he taught her, he has seen her in mission, countless times. But it doesn't mean that his heartrate doesn't pick up a little with worry – although it always happens when they get separated on missions.

"What is your objective?" he asks, unable to fully veil his anxiety. He knows she picks it up, but she doesn't remark on it.

"Get in. Get into the offices – seduce my way in, if needed. Find a computer connected to the house's system. Plant my little worm," she touched the big stone of her necklace, where he knows her pendrive is hidden," and get out," she finishes, which he regards with a nod.

"Good. You have three hours," he tells her.

"Half of that will be enough," she remarks, but he acts like he hasn't even heard her.

"Don't rush it. And don't engage, only if you really need to. And if anything goes south…"

"I know, oh, my knight in shining Kevlar," she cuts in with a note of annoyance in her voice. "You'll be there nearby, ready to jump into action. But really, Grant, I can handle it," she tells him earnestly, trying to calm him, as she places her hand on his shoulder, squeezing it gently.

A little flash of light catches his eye.

"Your ring," he says suddenly. "You left it on. Give it to me!"

This time she actually pouts, pulling her left hand back and cradling it against her chest.

"Do I really need to?"

"Your cover is not married," he reminds her gently, understanding her dilemma. He hates it too. "But hey," he tells her, even turning back a little so he can actually look her in the eye. "I'll put it back on you tonight, I promise."

She gives him a little smile, and reluctantly pulls the ring from her finger, placing it on his open palm.

"You'd better."

"I've done it before – why wouldn't I do it again?" he asks teasingly as he pockets the ring, making her grin widen.

They fall silent after that, not saying anything until the car makes the last turn, and the mansion finally comes into view.

"And really, Skye," he tells her one last time, searching for her gaze in the rearview mirror. "Don't be reckless. Don't do stupid things."

"You tell me this like you didn't know me."

"I know you a little too well."

She smirks at hearing that.

"Okay, I give you this," she agrees, checking her appearance one last time. "But I promise, I'll be careful. And quick," she adds just as the car stops in front of the entrance. He kills the engine, then jumps out of the vehicle to open the door for her. "After all," she continues in a low voice as he helps her out of the car, "Bobbi and Lance have Haylie until tomorrow afternoon, and I'd like to make the most of time we have… just the two of us," she breathes the last part in a way that makes a shiver run through him.

"Nothing would make me happier, Ms. Carmichael," he replies in his best chauffer voice, loud enough so the people around them can hear, then watches her walk up the steps, putting an extra sway into her hips just for his benefit. He doesn't get back into the car until she disappears into the building. And he doesn't turn his comms back on until he parks the car amongst the others, waiting patiently for her return.

"Oh, and Skye," he says then, hearing the distant noise of the party in the background on her end, "please, don't end up in the pool this time."


	84. Shot Through the Heart

**A/N:** Okay, so the original prompt was "Ward isn't Hydra. Ward finds out Garrett was Hydra the whole time. He doesn't go with the transport team. Him and Skye have that drink and extreme fluff ensues", but there are some cases when the fluff just wouldn't work. This is one of them.

* * *

 **Shot Through the Heart**

Ward has been shot a couple of times – bullet wounds hurt, he knows it all too well. But still, his injuries have been only minor so far – more like inconveniences than real concerns. It's not like he knows how it feels like to be shot through the heart.

Correction: he hasn't known it until now.

Because as he sees John being led away in handcuffs, it feels just like that – there's a point of intense pain in the middle of his chest, and the whole world seems to be concentrated to that point, while his vision blurs, and the voices around him merge together. He is breathing hard, yet it feels like no oxygen gets into his lungs.

It can't be…

The man who all but raised him cannot be HYDRA, he simply can't…

He can't stay here. He just can't – so protocols and all shit to be damned, he turns around – his back to his former mentor – and strides away.

He has no idea where he is going until he gets there; it's some kind of a break room in the Hub, deserted now, the tables turned over, the door of a cupboard turn off. There have been a fight here – a fight between S.H.I.E.L.D. and HYDRA.

Before he could comprehend what he is doing – before he could tell himself to stop –, he lashes out, hitting the wall with full force.

He welcomes the pain as he rests his forehead against the wall, breathing heavy.

He just doesn't understand it – how? Why? And…

He wonders briefly how many missions John gave him were for HYDRA – how many times did he assist an organization he detests? And when John called him, asking causally about the team, about his life, about _Skye_ … How much of that was just a play, an act to gather intelligence?

He lets out a bitter laugh.

He might as well have been a HYDRA agent all these years, and he didn't even know it.

He hears the door open, but he doesn't even move to acknowledge the newcomer – at least not until there's a gentle hand on his shoulder, carefully pulling him away from the wall. He doesn't even have to see her to know it's Skye – he recognizes her scent, her presence right away.

So he doesn't protest as she turns him around and takes him in.

"Oh, Grant…" he hears her sigh as her fingers touch his face, then wander down to his injured hand, her fingertips running over the bleeding knuckles. "Let me help with these," she tells him, then helps him sit down on the floor, by the wall. He lets her, numb.

She disappears then returns a couple moments later, having produced a first aid box from somewhere. He sits still, staring at the opposite wall as she gently wipes the blood away, applies antiseptic to his wounds and dresses them. He doesn't even feel the pain – he doesn't even feel anything, just the acute sense of loss and betrayal.

When she's done, she doesn't force him to talk; she simply laces their fingers together, and sits with him on the floor. Strangely, this is what draws him back to the real world – because he has to know. He has to know whether the girl who kissed him…

"Skye…" he starts, and his voice is so hoarse it sounds alien to his ears. "You're… You're not…"

"Of course not!" she cuts in, upset more for his benefit than out of being insulted. "No, no, I'd never."

"No secrets?"

"Not anymore, not for you," she assures him. "You can trust me."

"Good," he nods. "Because I, I couldn't, not after John and this whole mess, I just don't understand, how could he, and why me, Skye, why did he do this…" he rambles, voice raising, making less and less sense with every passing moment.

"Hey, hey, hey…" Skye chants, taking his face between her hands. "It's okay, it's okay, I got you. I understand. I'm here for you, It's okay…" she murmurs, pulling him down until his head rests on her lap. "Just let it all out."

But he doesn't – he doesn't know how. So he just lies on the cold tiles, his head in her lap as she strokes his hair. It doesn't lessen the pain – just makes it more bearable.


	85. No Complaints

**No Complaints**

As a child, Skye had always thought that one day she'd be a mother – that she'd have a baby (one, two, three babies) and she'd love them to the moon and back, giving them all the affection and care and stability she had never gotten.

Then came the Rising Tide years, and she revised this thought – after all, she was living in her van, where she had wi-fi, sure ( _feel the irony_ ), but no running water or even a real bed, and she was barely scraping by, sometimes living on ramen for weeks. And back then, she saw no hope this situation ever changing – so really, bringing a child to the world seemed stupid, irresponsible, so during this period of her life she had given up ever having a family on her own.

This was followed by her time with S.H.I.E.L.D. and Grant, when the _never_ turned into _someday_ – _someday, when the world is a little less crazy, when we are a little safer, when we are not hunted, we will have a child_. During those dark months when they were not only battling HYDRA but the government, too, some night they would lie in their bed, holding each other, fantasizing about how it would be, imagining their would-be children.

Then of course – completely out of the blue, catching them off-guard, at the worst possible time – she got pregnant. There she was, with powers she didn't quite understand yet, in the wake of a war she waged – amongst others – against her mother, living at a S.H.I.E.L.D. base, fighting bad guys left and right, and she was having a baby.

She didn't once consider getting rid of her.

And she hasn't regretted having her, not for a second.

Her baby girl, Haylie Grace Ward, is almost a year old now – a bright and curious child, all smiles and wide-eyed wonder at the world around her. She loves her a little more every single day.

"Look there, baby, look at the butterfly!" she points at the colorful little creature, crouching on the ground, holding Haylie upright.

"Bah!" Haylie echoes, following the butterfly with her eyes; her babblings are slowly becoming coherent syllables (she knows there's a bet going on at the base about what will be her first word), and she is getting surer and surer on her feet, her brave little girl.

"Yes, a butterfly," she repeats, ruffling Haylie's hair (it's getting long, reaching below her ears now), then stands up, hoisting the toddler to her hip.

Despite all the love and help they get at the base, the Playground can get a little crowded and claustrophobic at times, so Skye is really grateful for their sort-of-mandatory, weekly – when missions allow – trips to this park (which is conveniently only ten minutes on foot from Dr. Winslow's pet clinic). And Haylie needs the fresh air, anyway.

Right now, Skye relishes in the soft, spring sunlight as she walks back with a grinning toddler on her hip to where they spread their blanket with Grant. There's something peacefully reassuring about nature waking up once again – the promise of a new start.

"Do you like it here, Haylie-bell?" she asks her daughter, tickling her in the side; Haylie responds with a bubbling laugh. "Good, because soon we are going to live in a place that has just this much green – where you'll have a big yard to play in…"

At least she hopes so. Coulson has been in discussion with the government about the reinstatement of S.H.I.E.L.D. – with some modifications, of course – for some time, and if that goes through, the Playground will be cleared out, the Triskelion reopened, and they… They'll move out, buy a house and live the American dream, at least within the limitation of still being agents.

It still seems surreal.

Grant is where she left him minutes ago to show Haylie the ducks and chase butterflies, the only difference being that by now he has packed out the food they've brought – store-bought stuff, which damages the picture of domesticity a bit, not that she cares the slightest. He smiles up at them as they approach, already standing up and reaching for Haylie – Skye hands her over, watching as a smitten smile as Grant babbles nonsensical baby-things to their daughter.

"What?" he asks chuckling, catching her gaze, as they sit down.

Haylie reaches for her stuffed monkey lying on the plaid right away, so Skye picks it up and hands it to her.

"Nothing," she shrugs. "It's just sometimes I'm still trying to wrap my head around this whole thing – I mean, who would have thought three years ago that we would get here?" she gestures at the three of them. "The reckless hacker and the emotionless specialist raising a baby and dreaming of houses with white picket fence?"

Grant smiles, but nods at her thoughtfully.

"But we seem to be faring rather well," he replies, smoothing down Haylie's hair and pressing a kiss against the crown of her head as she sits in his lap. "And it's not like I'm complaining.)

Skye lets out a little laugh.

"No, not at all."


	86. Dressed to the Nines

**Dressed to the Nines**

"What the hell is this?" Skye eyes the sizeable package Ward has just tossed to her bed.

"I can't believe I'm saying this," he replies, and she can practically feel the eye-roll in his voice "but it's your… ensemble and debrief packet for tonight."

She blinks at him.

"Come again? I think I'm missing some vital information."

She can't be exactly sure, but she swears she sees a hint of a smile twitch at the corner of his mouth. Sighing and throwing his hands up in a helpless gesture, he sits down next to her on the mattress.

"Coulson is sending us on an undercover operation – but don't get too excited, it's a pretty basic op. Just surveillance – we have to keep our eyes on two subjects, and see if they make contact. Think of it as a training exercise." He pats her knee – most likely unconsciously. "Memorize your cover's file, and be ready for seven thirty," he says, standing up.

"Just one more question, oh, great S.O.," she drawls. "I get the dossier," she nods towards the said file, "but that other stuff looks suspiciously like a dress bag," she adds with false innocence, fluttering her lashes at him.

He lets out a barely audible grunt.

"Because it's a dress bag. With your dress in it." Suddenly he is inching towards her door in an accelerated fashion. "Because the location of the op is a benefit. And we are going to pose as guests."

"Like a couple?" she inquires, but he's already out of the door; she takes it as a yes. "We are going to a fancy party together, and I shouldn't get excited? You should think this over, Robot!" she calls after him.

* * *

Skye honestly doesn't know whether she should be impressed or scared that S.H.I.E.L.D. seems to know her exact measurements. She thinks she is going to go with the former just this once, because damn, whoever procured her dress for the evening had some style.

It's gorgeous.

The dress is deep, royal blue, sleek and fits her like a glove. The skirt flairs out below her knees, reaching the ground, but the bodice is tight, and the V of the neckline cuts just a tad bit deeper than what's absolutely modest. And the embroidery all over the top is just magnificent.

It's not a dress; it's a dream made out of blue satin.

* * *

Ward is punctual, as always; at 7:30 pm sharp there's a precise knock at her door.

For once, she's been expecting him, and she is completely ready. She wants to see his first, pure – untainted by annoyance – reaction to her dress.

He does not disappoint.

She catches his every little twitch as she slides her door open – she knows the exact moment when he sees her, because his whole posture stiffens a bit, and his Adam's apple bob as – she expects – his mouth suddenly goes dry. He blink once, twice, as if to make sure that what he's seeing is actually real (she also sees his gaze momentarily flicker towards her décolletage, and it leaves her felling just a bit proud).

"Are you –" he starts, then stops to clear his throat (whoa… then maybe the Robot is not made out of metal, after all). "Are you ready to go?"

"As ready as I'll ever be," she answers, plucking her comms into her ear.

He actually offers his hand to her (even though the mission hasn't even started really yet). She blinks once then takes it.

"You know," she starts, eyeing her escort "You look pretty dapper." And he does – from his neat, thin tie, to his broad shoulders hidden under his well-cut, dark grey suit jacket. She doesn't even dare to venture to take a look at his ass.

"I, er…" he stammers, actually flustered. "Thank you. You look lovely, too."

Oh, so the Terminator is not used to getting compliments? This should be a fun night.

* * *

It is not.

The party is fancy, too fancy for her taste, with stuck up people and food with names she can't even pronounce, let alone have the courage to try. The job is boring, too – the two targets won't even go near to each other.

But at least she gets to dance – because, apparently, that offers the best vantage point, lending near 360 degree view of the room.

Still, she steps on Ward's foot ( _accidentally_ ).

Though it's only because his hand is a tad bit lower on her back than absolutely necessary, and her dress has a low cut in the back, and his skin against hers is rather distracting.

One of the targets leave just before eleven o'clock, which means the end of the mission – still, Ward says they should stay, not to raise suspicions, he reasons. She teases him that he just doesn't want to have the night end yet. He just grunts in response, but then takes her to another dance (their cover is a couple in love, after all).

The mission officially done, he lets her have some champagne, and it soon goes to her head, but at least it makes her a better dancer. At least she thinks so. He drinks martini.

"Shaken, not stirred," she adds to the bartender, then catches Ward's eyes; he seems to be amused by her antics, which makes her grin.

* * *

By the time they live the party – past one in the morning – she is exhausted and her feet are sore. She doesn't care about propriety – she takes her shoes off in the back seat of their S.H.I.E.L.D.-ordered car, with Ward sitting right next to her.

He is being completely quiet, which is not exactly like him – at least not after a mission, not when he can evaluate her performance and berate her for her mistakes. But now, now he doesn't say a thing – he just watches her with wide, fond yes, that almost make her blush.

Almost.

"You did well today, Skye," he tells her at last, her name rolling off his tongue like a prayer.

"Wow," she replies, too stunned for a witty remark. "Thanks."

"Well, you earned it," he says with a hint of a smile.

* * *

She falls asleep on the way back to the Bus, and doesn't even wake until next morning – in her own bed, her old, soft blanket spread over her, comms pulled out of her ear, shoes set tidily next to her bed, still in her party dress.

She smiles into her pillow.

* * *

 **A/N:** I have a question for you. So tomorrow sees the start of the second week of Skyeward Month, which is dedicated to fanfiction. I really want to take part in it, but had no time to prepare beforehand. So right now we have two options for the next five days:

1, I put the picture drabbles on hold, and proceed with completely unrelated ficlets according to the given day's theme.

2, I continue with the picture drabbles, but forget the queue, and pick pics/prompts that correspond with the given day's theme.

Which one would you prefer?


	87. I Promise You

**A/N:** Written for Skyeward Month, Week 2, Day 1: hurt/comfort, angst

* * *

 **I Promise You**

He should be asleep – it has been a long two days –, but his mind is not getting a moment's rest, running wild circles around the possibilities.

 _What if the serum doesn't work?_

 _Why shouldn't it work?_

 _But what if it was too late?_

 _Coulson was dead, and yet, he is here today, alive and well. If Skye got the same serum, she should be okay._

 _But what if the thing she was injected with isn't even the same that was used on Coulson? What if it was mislabeled or Coulson's file was tampered with, or…_

Grant lets out a low, pained grunt, leaning forward and pressing his forehead against the back of her hand, as if her touch could make his demons go away – only her skin is cold, and there are wires and tubes everywhere, and it's almost like it's not even her lying on the bed, because surely, something so full of life can't be so still.

It's been twelve hours since she's been administered the GH-325 and although Jemma says she's better, Grant just can't see it – her skin is still cold, her lips are still blue-tinted, her skin pale, there's still a machine breathing for her. She is still asleep.

And for all he knows, she might not ever wake up again (what guarantees that the serum will work?).

And if she won't, it'll be all his fault. (It's already all his fault.)

He is that moron who let it all happen.

Who didn't keep her in his sight.

Who didn't tell John that she was off limits.

Who was too weak to protect her.

Who was weak enough to love her.

 _Oh, God._

He has never though that he would ever feel like this, but… he loves her.

There's nothing to deny about it – he's fallen for her a long time ago, maybe the moment he opened her van's door.

And it's a goddamn tragedy.

His fingers curls around her cool ones, desperately wishing… he doesn't know. For something else.

It's a goddamn tragedy, because there can be no good coming from him loving her. It can only cause complications (John used to warn him about that…). And yet, he can't help it – he loves her, loves her more than life itself, and he'd do anything…

He tries to think rationally. He's caught between two fires: John and Coulson (and Skye). HYDRA and S.H.I.E.L.D. He is not an idiot – he knows there's no way he can get out of this undamaged. Without losing everything. And yet…

He takes a deep breath, determined; he rises from his seat a bit and leans over her, pressing a kiss against her forehead.

"I'm sorry," he whispers to her, low enough that the cameras won't pick it up. "But I promise I'll make it right – even if it's the last thing I do. I love you."

It might be just his imagination, but it almost feels like her fingers twitch beneath his.


	88. Mothers Always Know

**A/N:** Written for Skyeward Month, Week 2, Day 2: romance/fluff. Also, this it the story where I reveal the name of the thirs Ward baby :)

* * *

 **Mothers Always Know**

Although she can't be absolutely sure – well, it's not like they have ever… had sex so infrequently that it'd be easy to pin it down to one occasion –, but Skye has a pretty good idea when all three of her daughters were conceived.

* * *

Her firstborn, her little surprise, Haylie Grace, is the hardest to pinpoint: she came to be during the weeks after the Inhuman War, when Skye was living in a kind of haze – her father stripped of his memories, her mother confined in Lai Shi with a sentence that declared she may never leave or use her powers again, and her left with abilities she still hadn't completely made peace with.

She felt… lost. Uprooted. It was Grant who was her anchor during those times – like he had been before, and has been many times ever since.

One night she was peculiarly feeling like she was swimming in the middle of a whirlpool, being pulled underwater, and she had no idea what to do. Grant held her close in the safe, familiar haven of their bunk, whispering sweet words of love and reassurance into her ear, his thumb drawing nonsensical patterns on the small of her back.

She needed him – in more ways than one.

She kissed him, lying on the top of the covers, her arms sneaking around his neck and pulling him on top of her. His gentle caresses soon grew bolder, and his lips were burning her skin, and her fingers were buried in his hair.

But there was none of the unbridled passion or the playfulness or the urgency that so characterized their couplings back then. They made love slowly, gently that night, and held each other for a long time afterwards, him making promises to her she wasn't sure he'd be able to keep.

Haylie burst into their lives completely out of the blue as the consequence of maybe that night. Back then Skye used to think she fell pregnant at the most inopportune time – now she is certain Haylie knew very well when she had to come.

* * *

The conception of her second baby, Adalyn Camille, everybody's Ada, is a much happier tale. And quite clichéd, too.

Skye technically spent four days on a plane, trying to track down a gifted individual, chasing him all around the globe. She'd been so many countries and crossed so many time zones that she had no idea what the time – or even the day – was anymore, and this is how she ended up getting home on the morning of Valentine's day, not even being completely aware of this fact.

Grant – who had been home, taking care of Haylie the whole time – greeted her at the door, taking her bag and helping her shrug off her coat. She all but melted into his embrace, tucking herself under his chin, feeling every beat of his heart and inhaling his scent in. She was tired, yes, but she could already feel the familiar heat starting to build up in her core – four days without him was four days too long, especially when they were trying to have a baby.

He carefully extracted himself from her arms, kissed the top of her head, and told her to go and take a bath, while he took care of everything else – and not to worry about Haylie, Mama Audrey was more than happy to take her for the day (she pouted a little at hearing this, because she had been missing her baby, but at the same time she was kind of glad she could have Grant completely for herself for a couple of hours).

A bath sounded wonderful, so she'd obliged; he'd drawn her one – the tub was filled to the brim with sweet-scented foam, and he'd even lit a couple of tea candles in the bathroom. She was already smirking to herself; so he was planning something for the day, and knowing him, she suspected that he'd gone overboard once again (he used to do that, when romance was concerned, almost as if he was trying to compensate for something).

She soaked herself in the water until it was starting to cool down, washed her hair and shaved (because really, he was up to something, it was the least she could do), pulled on the PJs he'd lain out for her (her comfiest pair), then made her way to the master bedroom.

She laughed out loud when she entered the bedroom – because of course he'd gone overboard.

In the – what, forty minutes? – since she'd entered the bathroom, he'd pulled on fresh sheets (new ones, as they didn't look familiar), and decorated the room in general: there were rose petals on the floor, and she counted no less than five vases full of red carnations, not to mention the at least a dozen heart-shaped balloons floating over the bed. He had also prepared breakfast – she could see pancakes and waffles and bacon and fresh fruit, next to coffee and milk and orange juice, all tastefully arranged on the bed tray and on the low bench at the end of the bed.

 _Oh, Robot,_ she chuckled into her palm.

A pair of strong arms enveloped her from behind, his lips pressing against the delicate skin of her neck.

"Happy Valentine's day, love," he whispered into her ear.

They eat breakfast in the bed that day, feeding each other and messing with the balloons (most of them ended up on the ceiling somehow), before they devoured each other, perfectly messing up the neatly made bed (she felt a little sorry for the new sheets). She didn't leave the bed that much that day, and by the month's end, she suspected she was pregnant.

(Hunter was the first one who caught up on when Ada had most likely conceived, and loved to give them grief about it, which Skye took with annoyed amusement – after all, had the tables been turned, she would have done the exact same thing.)

* * *

She wouldn't want Coulson to know, but her littlest girl, Eleanor Hope, commonly known as Ellie, most likely was conceived in the new Triskelion.

It was early November of 2020, just after Ada's third birthday, and her father – his memories having been restored some time earlier – had all but begged her to let him take the girls for the night. Not that she needed that much convincing – it was actually nice to see him spoil Haylie and Ada rotten, almost as if he was making up now for not having been able to raise her.

She and Grant spent the bigger part of the day at HQ, taking part in the planning of a bigger, riskier operation involving several agents, aerial and technical support. It was well past nine o'clock by the time they finished, and the Triskellion had all but emptied by then, with just the night guards, and some insomniac analysts staying – which meant that the gym was just theirs.

They just smiled at each other and said that they were doing it for old times' sake, for all the training sessions they had in the cargo bay of the Bus and in the gym of the Playground. Any anyway, they hadn't had the time or the opportunity to spar with each other for some time, so why not now, when they had the time and place, when they didn't have to be anywhere else, and when surely nobody was going to interrupt them? So they put on their training clothes, and took over the mats.

(Of course, it wasn't like they didn't exactly know what they were getting into.)

It even started half-serious, like they actually wanted to train – there were some really nice moves, and she ended up on her a back couple of times before managing to kick his legs out from under him. But then things started to turn a little… not so serious. Mostly when they started to use some unfair tactics such as tickling and blowing raspberries and kissing (that was the cruelest). Because of course their old training-induced sexual tension had returned as well, and soon they found themselves engaging in a completely different kind of sparring match.

One that they were very familiar with.

The kind that didn't require clothes.

On the mats, in the middle of the Triskellion. (Oh, but was it good sex.)

But still, she is never going to tell Coulson how and where his youngest granddaughter was conceived – she values his sanity and Grant's wellbeing too much.


	89. Spontaneity Is the Key of Everything

**A/N:** For Skyeward Month, Week 2, Day 3: Humor. Note: contains smut.

* * *

 **Spontaneity Is the Key of Everything**

She made one comment on his spontaneity – of, more precisely, the lack of thereof ( _It's okay, you're a robot, of course going against your programming is going to fry your circuits_ ), and he wants to get over it, not to care about it, but then again… It's Skye we are talking about, and he has never been able to disregard anything she said.

So he has decided to show her he could, in fact, be spontaneous.

And that's how he has ended up in front of the door of her hotel room – thank goodness for the rare overnights in hotels – unannounced, a bottle of scotch and two glasses in hand. It's an old hotel, with old doors that still uses keys instead of key cards, and it suits him just fine – one precise kick to the corner of the door and the flimsy lock gives away, letting him in.

Skye's not in the main room, but he can hear the faint roar of the water as the bathtub is being filled, accompanied by her soft singing (she has a really pretty voice; it's a shame she only sings when she thinks no-one is listening), and he smirks to himself. This is exactly what he has expected, since Skye said at dinner that she was going to _so take advantage_ of the big tub in her room. The corners of his mouth still curled into a smile, he places the drink on the table, pours a liberal amount into both glasses, then waits – until the tap turned off, and he can be sure she's submerged herself in the warm, scented water. Then he slowly counts to ten – lets her adjust to the temperature –, picks up the glasses, and walks to the bathroom.

Skye – sitting amongst the foam, her hair down, the top of the swell of her breast just visible above the surface of the water – stiffens a bit at first, alarmed, but then a slow grin spreads on her face when she sees who her unexpected visitor is.

"Hello there," she says in a low, teasing voice. "Couldn't bear a night without me?"

"Would you think that I'm pathetic if I said yes?" he replies, matching her amused smile with one on his own. And although he's just trying to reciprocate her flirting, there's some truth there – ever since their fledging relationship has started, he has been kind of addicted to her, which would alarm him, has he been not enjoying it so much.

"No. I couldn't really fault you for that, when I have been missing you a bit, too." Just to illustrate the bit, she raises her right hand, her thumb and forefinger held close. He chuckles at her.

"Good; anyway, I came bearing gifts," he says, bending and handing her one of the glasses. She takes it, rising and leaning forward a bit, so her nipples just peek above the water for a moment. He knows she is doing it on purpose.

"Aren't people usually drink, I don't know, champagne, while they are in the tub?" she criticizes playfully, but still takes a sip of the drink. He sees a faint shiver traveling through her body as the burning alcohol slides down her throat. He tries not to gulp.

"Well, I thought you'd prefer this. But if you want champagne – maybe with strawberries? –, I can get that for you next time."

"Oh, so there will be a next time?" she drawls, settling back against the wall of the tub. "I like the way you think." She winks at him.

It's time for phase two of his plan.

Taking a sip of his drink himself, and letting out an approving hum – who would have thought that the hotel bar sells such fine scotch? –, he puts his glass down on the edge of the tub, then, rather unceremoniously, kicks off his shoes. He is already pulling his shirt through his head when he hears Skye's laugh.

"What are you doing?" she giggles, her hand in front of her mouth.

He shrugs, unfastening his belt.

"Well, I'm in need of a bath, too, and you have already drawn one – so I thought, why couldn't we share it? Water preservation and all," he answers, pushing his pants and underwear down and stepping out of them.

He hears her laugh out loud and sees from the corner of his eyes as she throws her head back as he bends to pull off his socks.

"I see absolutely no fault in your logic," she tells him, wakening lust in her eyes as she takes his nude form in.

All of his clothes in a messy pile on the bathroom floor, he steps over the edge of the tub and sinks into the warm water, his back against the wall of the tub, facing her. She doesn't take her eyes off of him for one second, a knowing smirk on her face.

"I know what's going on here," she tells him, the pink tip of her tongue peeking out between her lips for a moment. "It's about what I've said. You're trying to prove that you can be spontaneous."

He lets out a theatrical sigh, settling against the end of the tub.

"I have no idea what are you talking about," he says, overacting nonchalance.

"Oh, really?" Her eyes flash mischievously, then, before he could grab her hands and stop her, she thrusts her palms forward on the surface of the water, and splashes him right in the face. "Admit it!" she demands before unleashing another small wave of bath water.

He gasps, water dripping from his face and hair as she laughs, ready to continue her assault.

"Admit it!"

He shakes his head, getting rid of as much water as he can, then, before she could launch her next attack, he grabs her hands, playfully starting to wrestle with her, splashing a great deal of water over the edge of the tub, flooding the floor (and drenching his clothes, although he doesn't realize it just yet). She is thrashing and squealing in delight while half-heartedly resisting as he pulls her forward and turning her over, her back to his chest, presses her against his body, his arms sneaking around her waist and holding her securely.

"Okay," he gives in when she stops wriggling, "You drive me crazy," he says, blowing a raspberry where her neck meets her shoulder. "And you make me want to be more than I am," a playful nip. "I want to be playful… and romantic… and yes, spontaneous with you," he tells her, every item on the list accompanied by a kiss to the delicate skin of her neck. "Can you blame me for it?" He concludes with a bold lick against the column of her neck.

"Not at all," she replies, her playful tones replaced with breathless need. He feels it too; he is, too, all too aware of their bodies pressing together, the gentle curves of her back fitting against his hard chest, her round rear on his thighs, their legs tangled together.

"I'm glad we are on the same page," he tells her, although not even he is sure whether he means the discussion they have just had, or the desire he knows they share. The scale tips towards the latter as his hand steals upwards, cupping the curve of her breast, massaging the soft mound before pinching her nipple between his thumb and forefinger.

She lets her head fall back, gasping.

"Yes," she moans, eyes fluttering closed. "Hm… just like that."

He sneaks her hand towards her core, desperate for friction, but he sees it and grabs her wrist, pulling it back.

"Let me," he breaths into her ear, pulling the lobe between his lips.

One of his hands still fondling her breast, the other travels down, slipping between her folds, finding that sweet spot just above her opening with ease, rubbing and teasing it, making her mewl with pleasure and wriggle in his arms, desperately seeking more – so he gives her that, slipping two fingers into her core. She lets out a soft cry at the sudden intrusion, her hand grabbing his wrist, keeping it firm in place.

"More," she begs as her hand lets go of his wrist and starts searching for his member under the water. She finds it soon enough, her nimble fingers curling around the hardened shaft, stroking his length and making him gasp. "I want you."

He bends his head in response, sucking on her neck – leaving marks, no doubt –, then wraps his own fingers around hers, the two of them guiding his member into her welcoming core.

She moans and stiffens as he slides home, her warm, wet walls clenching around him.

It's an awkward angle, but he slides down a bit along the length of the tub and pulls her a bit upwards, so he can dive deeper into her, the head of his cock hitting the entrance of her womb. Still, the most of the work is left to her, but she takes the task, moving frantically over him, while he rocks his hips against her and keeps his hand just above where they're joined, rubbing her clit, coaxing her climax along.

It doesn't take her long to reach the peak – a minute or two, and her whole body goes rigid, her back snapping into a beautiful curve, all of her muscles flexing as her walls spasm rhythmically around him, drawing him even deeper into her body as if she never wants to let him go. His body responds to her orgasm, tension coiling deep in his groin, then springing free suddenly in an explosion of pleasure as he shots his seed into her in hot spurts.

When she comes down from her high, her body supple and sated, she turns around in his arms, resting her face on his rapidly rising and falling chest, sighing contently. After some time, when her heartbeat finally returns to normal, she pulls herself up a bit and reaches for her glass that somehow miraculously remained sitting on the edge of the tub. She raises it to her mouth and takes a delicate sip, licking her lips as she puts it down.

"You know what?" she asks him, her hands splayed wide on his chest, her voice still hoarse with the remains of her orgasm, and her hips grinding down against his in a seductive fashion (she is a greedy little creature). "I love it when you're spontaneous."


	90. Goodbye

**A/N:** It's not a happy piece, but something I had to do, for myself (and please, excuse me for taking a pic out of order). Those who follow me on Tumblr know what an emotionally straining time I've been through lately. My 88 year old grandmother, who lived with us since I was born, has been to the hospital four times in the last seven weeks, her health fast deteriorating. She is there right now, too, and she might not come home again. She might be already dead as I'm writing this. I don't know what I'm feeling, what I should be feeling, but I can write, so that's what I do.

* * *

 **Goodbye**

The moment Ellie walks out of the school and her father is waiting for her in front of the building, she knows something is wrong (he hasn't picked her up since middle school, not without agreeing on it first). She doesn't even have to ask; she just swallows, and steps between his arms, burying her face in his shoulder.

* * *

She hates hospitals; she absolutely loathes them. The sterile, off-color walls and the pungent smell of sickness and death, the impersonality… She wants to turn around and run, but she just can't.

Haylie and Ada are there too – one back from the Academy for the day, the other missing her afternoon classes at the university – sitting on either side of their mother in the hallway, Haylie gripping her hand, Ada resting her head on her shoulder. And their mother, who seemingly always smiles, and ever ready to crack a joke, just stares ahead with red-rimmed eyes.

For a moment Ellie is scared they are too late.

But then her mother looks up and sees her, a faint, sad smile appearing on her face. She stands, reaching out for her youngest, and Ellie's not sure who hugs the other first. Not that it matters.

* * *

She is not too late – not yet. They have been just waiting for her.

* * *

It's worse inside the room – it might be that the smells are stronger here. Or it might be the machines. Or the person lying in the bed.

It's hard for Ellie to see her Papa Cal in that frail, old man, with his sparse, white hair and thin, shaking hands, his eyes looking, but not seeing what's in front of him.

The Papa Cal she remembers is strong and cheerful. He laughs loudly and whispers conspiratorially behind her parents' back. He lifts her on the counter and lets her pet all the cute animals at the clinic.

(But she was six then, and now she is sixteen, and it hurts.)

* * *

It takes a couple of moments and her mother's gentle coaxing for Papa Cal to notice them – but when he does, his eyes light up with sudden joy, a pathetic shadow of what he used to be.

"You brought the girls," he grins, his eyes moving from her mother to her and her sisters and back. Then he rises a little, pointing at the bedside table. "There's… there's candy for you, in the bottom drawer…"

(Haylie clutches her hand; Ellie's not sure she does it to support her, or because she needs support herself.)

There always used to be candy for the three of them in the bottom drawer of the receptionist's desk at his pet clinic – always three packets, one from each of their current favorite. He always seemed to know what their favorite was. But the clinic closed when Ellie was ten, and he hasn't kept candy in the bottom drawer ever since.

Papa Cal is there now, in the past – with them, and yet beyond reach.

(Ellie sees her mother wipe away a single tear.)

* * *

They stay for a while, the four of them sitting around his bed, their father hanging back.

Papa Cal talks a lot in his frail, barely audible voice. One moment he's clear, asking Haylie about the Academy, the next he's inquiring about Captain (he was her parents' first dog, rescued from a shelter; he died when Ellie was just a baby), and calls Ada Daisy.

Her mother nods along, holding his hand as he recounts some old anecdote every one of them knows, mixing up all the details. Ellie's having a hard time keeping her tears at bay, but she can see in the set of her mother's mouth that she is close to crying as well.

When Papa Cal starts dozing off, her mother says it's time for them to go.

Ellie stand with shaking knees, waiting for her turn – being the youngest – to get to her grandpa. When it's finally just her and him, she leans over the rails of his bed and presses a kiss against his forehead (his skin is paper thin, dry and cold; nothing like she remembers), and whispers to him, "Love you, Papa. Bye."

"I love you too, sweetheart," he answers in a faint voice, groping blindly for her wrist.

* * *

Outside the room Haylie, being the great big sister she is, draws her close to her left, pulling Ada to her right, hugging both of them tightly as they walk down the corridor.

"It was the final goodbye, right?" Ellie mumbles, not meeting her sister's eyes.

Haylie takes her time to answer, kissing her cheek (once upon a time, she always used to kiss the top of her head; she can't do that anymore, as they are nearly the same height now).

"It was," she says softly at last. "But it'll be better for him there."


	91. On Prospective Dogs

**On Prospective Dogs**

It's scary how easily he has gotten used this tiny sliver of domesticity – retiring to their bunk at the Playground after a long and tiring day of training, missions, and just generally saving the world – crossing off one enemy at a time –, and relax a little before going into bed; Skye browsing the net on her tablet, he making some progress in his novel. Some days they just sit next to each other, aware of the other's presence, but not disturbing each other; other days she'll lean against him, or his hand will unconsciously reach for hers, to rub little circles to the back of hand under the covers. But then on some days, they'll just have to engage the other.

John has just freaked out next to Linda's deathbed, scaring the Delta children, and… Grant can't concentrate on his book, because Skye's sniggering next to him – her eyes crinkling, palm in front of her mouth, gaze locked at the screen of her tablet. He sighs, trying to tune out her amused sounds, but – okay, so Houxley might be high literature, but he's itching to know what so funny.

So putting his bookmark discretely between the pages (he wouldn't want Skye to know that a little giggle was enough to make him more interested in what she was doing than his own book), he turns to her.

"What's that?" he asks, trying to sneak a peek of her screen.

"Oh," she answers, mischief shining in her eyes, "it's just that I found your perfect dog." And with that, she turns the tablet towards him.

Okay, he has to give it to her – he, too, stifles a chuckle seeing the pic.

It's of – as she has already informed him – a dog, a German Shepard to be precise, sitting in what must be a court room, a police officer kneeling in front of him, while the dog has his front paw placed on the book the officer is holding (must be the Bible – but then again, why would a dog swear on the Bible?) in a comically serious manner – his back straight, tail unmoving, ears standing alert. Like he is actually about to give testimony.

"We should track this dog down," Skye is saying, wide smile on her lips as she leans her head on his shoulder, stifling a little yawn. "I have a feeling you two would make an excellent team." She hums contently, not speaking for a couple of seconds as he plucks the tablet from her hand, turns it off, and places it on the bedside table along with his novel. "Or maybe we should just simply get you a German Shepard. You could train him."

"I don't know," he tells her, gently easing her down so she can lay her head on her pillow. "German Shepards are great dogs, but I've never been partial to them," he goes on, seeing her eyelids flutter closed. "I'd rather prefer hunting dogs – so if it were up to me, we'd get maybe a Vizsla, an Irish Setter, or perhaps a Golden Retriever. Those are good with kids, too, you know," he adds, kissing her forehead – she lets out an agreeing _hmmm_ –, then turning of the lamps.

About five minutes pass – according to his estimation –, when Skye suddenly rolls over in bed, forcefully colliding with him (he lets out a huff that is more surprised than an indication of pain), then rising a little, she not-so-quietly whispers into his ear:

"Did you just honestly _hint_ that we should have kids?"

He doesn't answer, just grins into his pillow.

 _So maybe she wasn't that fast asleep as he thought._


	92. Little Wonders

**Little Wonders**

Haylie is barely a couple minutes old when he first holds her.

She is placed on Skye's chest right after she's born, wailing and red faced, smeared in blood and hastily wrapped in a thin blanket that'll end up in the trash afterwards. Skye's weak from exhaustion – it was a long labor, and he has seen more seasoned agents break under tenth of the pain she's just endured –, her hair is damp, but she is laughing and crying at the same time, running her fingertips along the baby's face. He's barely more than an observer then, unable to get enough of the little face that has since ceased crying, now blinking curiously at this new world she's just arrived at.

Then he is pulled from his haze by somebody calling his name, and looking up he sees a pair of surgical scissors offered to him; he blinks a couple of times, trying to put two and two together, then takes them, nodding, then rather uncertainly cuts the umbilical cord (it's harder to do than it seems).

Then Haylie is transferred to his arms – because their baby girl needs to be washed and clothed and examined, but Skye's not exactly done yet with her… tasks, so the responsibility of taking care of his infant daughter is bestowed upon him for the very first time.

He is startled by how small she feels in his arms – head easily fitting in his palm, tiny fingers barely long enough to curl around his one digit, weighing about as much as a pair of feathers. It seems so impossible that somebody so small should exist.

He bathes her under Jemma's watchful eye, reminding him to mind her head and to be careful – as if he hasn't already been handling her like the most precious jewel in the world. Haylie is strangely calm in the water – she whines a little at first, but then relaxes, blinking up sleepily at him as he pours warm water over her short, dark wisps of hair.

Then he steps aside – albeit a little reluctantly –, and lets Jemma do her job. She measures and probes and checks, then lists of a string of statistics he knows he'll remember forever: APGAR score ten at five minutes; seven pounds, seven ounces; twenty-one inches. She assures him that Haylie is completely healthy and absolutely good-sized (she still seems unbelievably small, and he still counts all of her tine fingers and toes), beaming at him and patting him on his arm, as if she was proud of him, when he didn't do anything – it was all Skye.

Then Haylie is diapered (he hasn't realized until now how tricky these little things can be), clothed (in some onesie he doesn't remember seeing before; he actually had a dress picked out for her, but he completely forgot about it when Skye went to labor the night before, so somebody must have just picked up something from the nursery and brought here; he isn't sure – all details of the last sixteen hours or so are kind of fuzzy), and swaddled (in May's old blanket that she was supposed to pass on to her own child – and then gave to Skye). He takes her into his arms once again – it feels more fitting now, and yet still so foreign –, and takes her back to Skye.

He is in no hurry – Haylie's finally succumbed to the exhaustion of being born, her eyes dropping closed, a tiny fist – the only things visible from the depths of the blanket, save for her face – curled around a fold of the soft material. She is just too beautiful for words.

When he gets back to the temporary delivery room, Dr. Hartland – an old acquaintance of May's, the obstetrician who observed Skye's pregnancy and agreed to come to the base to deliver the baby here – is already tidying up the room – sneaking a little smile at him –, and Skye's reclining in the bed, hair's still a mess, but wearing a clean nightgown and her cheeks a little less flushed. Her face lights up when she sees him – _them_ –, her lips curving into a tired smile.

"Hi, daddy," she says softly, a new kind of love twinkling in her eyes.

He swears his heart skips a beat. _Hi, daddy_ , it echoes in his mind, and… wow. The realization hits him only now: he is a dad now, has been for about half an hour now.

He grins like an idiot.


	93. Lovebirds

**Lovebirds**

Melinda May sometimes regrets she has ever given Grant Ward relationship advice – or, more precisely, that she has encouraged him to pursue Skye. But then again, who would have thought that he'd fall this deep?

It's nine a.m., not at all early by anybody's standards on the Bus, but still, she'd appreciate some silence, so she could work on her reports in peace. But, of course, it's not going to happen.

She doesn't even pay attention to Ward and Skye's playful banter in the background (to be honest, in the beginning, it was cute; then for two weeks or so, it was really amusing, watching Skye push Ward's buttons, but after having caught them making out in the gunroom – twice –, then in the galley, their romance was swiftly entering the bothersome category), she can even ignore the soft sounds of scuffle (really, she just doesn't want to know), but when Skye starts squealing – now, that has her standing up and leaving the command center to see what's going on.

She doesn't know whether the sight she faces outside should make her smile or frown.

Ward is walking along the narrow corridor between the wall of the plane and the command center, with Skye thrown over his shoulders – her torso behind his head, holding her arms with one hand, while his other arm is busy trying to keep her kicking legs as under control as possible. And both of them are laughing like children.

May makes a stance at the edge of the command center, crossing her arms in front of her body, then clears her throat, trying to catch the lovebirds' attention. It works, remarkably well – they freeze in an instant, laughter dying out, and both of them looking at her like they have just seen a ghost.

She is having a really hard time not to laugh.

"Does either of you care to explain to me what's going on here?"

She can actually see Ward's Adam's apple bob as he swallows.

"May, help!" Skye says with a grin, having found her wits again a second sooner than him, then starts thrashing around again, trying to escape from his grasp,. "He's trying to abduct me!" she laughs.

"I'm not!" he replies, indignantly. "She refused to come to training, so I though…"

"You said I didn't have training today!" Skye protests, interrupting him. "You said we can skip it because of that th – hey! No biting allowed!" she emphasizes, eyebrows pulled together, as Ward pulls her forearm from his mouth, the small, white indentations on her skin still visible. "And just FYI – it hurt."

"Sorry, babe," he apologizes, pulling her arm back and pressing a kiss against the now fading bite marks ( _the best since Romanoff, yeah, sure_ ). "Better?"

May is having a hard time not to let out an exasperated sigh.

"Go," she tells them at last, rubbing the bridge of her nose. "Do what you need to do – just please, do it quiet-like. Understood?"

There's a simultaneous agreement on that topic, with – most likely empty – promises that they'll keep the noise down, then the two of them turn around – Skye salutes to her first –, and trot away, navigating down the spiral staircase leading to the cargo bay, with Skye still laid over Ward's shoulders.

Her posture relaxing, May lets herself give Skye and Ward's retreating forms an amused smile – okay, so they might be good together, and maybe her advice wasn't even as unwise as she sometimes finds herself to think. Maybe those two can actually work things out, and keep their relationship and passion alive. She wishes the best for them.

But until then, May reminds herself, she shouldn't leave the command center for a while, because whatever Skye and Ward have planned to do in the cargo bay, it's sure as hell won't be training (maybe she should warn Fitz and Simmons as well. Just for good measure).


	94. Teamwork

**A/N:** I know I haven't updated since Friday, but please understand – my grandmother passed away on Saturday, and I hadn't been really in a condition to write. Maybe I'm getting back to the saddle, but I don't promise that there will be sure, steady, daily updates for a while (but I'll try).

* * *

 **Teamwork**

In her childhood, Halloween had always been a source of great excitement, and then great disappointment. The kids in the orphanage would always get hyped up before the holiday, planning extravagant costumes and dreaming of all the candy they would collect, only to realize that the orphanage had no founds for getting them dressed up (so came the ghosts and the Greek gods, both manageable from simple white bedsheets), or personnel to chaperone them on the streets. So, trick-or-treating for Skye usually consisted of gazing longing out of the orphanage window (the situation was hardly better when she was at foster parents).

Maybe that's why she was so determined now to make her daughters' Halloween everything they wanted. Even if it meant pulling an all-nighter to finish their costumes.

This year, having relatively light mission load and two kids who fully understood and anticipated the holiday, she had decided to sew their costumes herself. She had some – minimal – experience in this field, back from her Rising Tide days, when "barely scraping by" had meant second hand shops and clothes she had to mend and alter herself (there was a reason she used to like baggy clothing), and, rather stupidly, she had thought it would be enough – after all, how hard can a Snow White (she didn't get Ada's fascination with that particular princess, but then again, who could completely understand almost-three-year-olds?) and a "superhero girl in tutu" (her firstborn was already at badass at five years old) costume can be?

Apparently, not that hard (according to the Internet), if you have time. Which she didn't. Because at the worst possible moment one of the analysts blew her perfect software, the one she wrote to trace the bank activity of suspicious individuals, and she had to spend the better part of her last two days with repairing it.

And that's how here she was now, in the middle of the night the day before Halloween, with two unfinished costumes, alternately stabbing the needle into her finger and chewing at her nails in worry (honestly, when she had been alone on at home on Halloween three years ago while Grant and Haylie went trick-or-treating, and couldn't decide whether she was having real contractions or Braxton-hicks, now, that was less stressful than what she was going through now).

(That had been a false alarm, by the way – Ada had been giving her those for days, before she was finally deigned to be born on the fifth.)

"Oh, damn it!" she burst as she pricked her finger again, throwing the needle and the half-done costume down in her anger. Crossing her arms in front of her chest, she stared at the offending material for a moment, then let out a defeated sigh, picked them up, and started working again – she had finish these; she couldn't bear the thought of disappointing her girls.

Just then there was a soft knock on the doorframe behind her back. She turned around slowly, knowing very well who it was (honestly, there were only four people in the house, and out of those two were fast asleep in their beds).

"Hey there, stranger," she greeted him, trying to sound as cheerful as possible. "What brings you here? What about your reports?"

Grant walked over to her in a leisurely pace.

"They're done, and I just wanted to see how you were doing with the dresses," he replied, sitting down on the edge of the sofa.

Skye sighed; for a moment, she considered – well, not lying, just putting some make-up on the truth – but then looked around, taking in all the random bits and pieces of tulle, velvet, glitter and other various materials, and just gave up. The scenery was telling enough.

"Terrible," she confessed. "I'm trying to grab everything at once, which only ends with…" she gave him a little shrug "…everything falling from my hands." She cast her eyes down. "I'm honestly starting to worry about not finishing these things in time."

Grant just smiled at her fondly, took her chin in his hand, turned her face towards him and gently kissed her.

"Then let me help," he said softly. "We'll get this done in no time."

Skye shook her head.

"No, thanks, really, but you have to go and make a report tomorrow morning, and you've done enough already, and I told them I'd do these, and…"

To make her shut up he kissed her again.

"I faintly recall a vow when I said I'd always stand by you," he teased her. "And they're my daughters too, you know," he said, rolling up his sleeves. "Now, what do you need me to do?"

She smiled at him, eyes twinkling.

"I knew there was a reason I let you knock me up."

"Twice, if I might add," he replied, reaching for a piece of tulle that was to be a part of Haylie's skirt.

* * *

Although, as it turned out, Grant had zero experience with sewing, but he still diligently measured, cut, painted and glued, and with combined effort, they really did manage to complete the costumes in no time. Okay, it was past four a.m. when they finished, but they did finish.

And the girls looked absolutely adorable in their costumes the next day, and that's what mattered.


	95. Big Sisters and New Additions

**Big Sisters and New Additions**

Haylie stepped on the edge of the crib, pulled herself up, and peered over the railing, frowning a little.

Her newest little sister was, well… little. And so far, not too interesting – Ellie wasn't like Ada, with whom she could run around and play with Barbies and stuffed animals. All Ellie had done since she came out of mommy's belly (the _how_ Haylie couldn't imagine) was sleeping and eating and crying. So she was somewhat boring.

But, Haylie thought, tilting her head to the side, Ellie was somewhat… cute. She was small and chubby and her eyes were a little too big for her face. She liked that. And that she crunched her nose like a puppy when she didn't like something.

But still, she couldn't really decide whether she liked having Ellie here or not.

And Ellie was waking up now – her eyelids fluttering, she yawned (yep, she was cute), then tightening and relaxing her tiny fists, she looked at Haylie.

Glancing around the room – after all, she had a stromg feeling that she was doing things she wasn't supposed to –, Haylie stood on her tiptoes and reached into the crib, trying to hold Ellie's hand. But before she could have reached the tiny baby fist, two strong hands grabbed her waist and lifted her to the air. Haylie squealed as her father twirled her around.

"What are you doing, Haylie-belle, huh?" he asked, setting her down, in a tone that told her she wasn't really in trouble. "You know you aren't supposed to climb onto the furniture," he scolded her gently.

She caste her gaze down, clasped her hands behind her back, and tried to look as innocent as possible.

"I was just watching Ellie, daddy."

Her daddy's face softened right away.

"Do you want to hold her?"

Haylie blinked at him uncertainly; then she stood on her tip toes, trying to look into the crib again without climbing on it (it didn't work), then, just as uncertainly, she nodded.

Daddy bent down and ruffled her hair (she so didn't like that).

"Go, sit on the couch!" he told her, and Haylie turned around right away, sprinting towards it (although on her way to it she briefly considered how the couch and armchairs, and chairs in general were exception from the "no climbing on furniture"-rule). Just as she settled against the cushions, Ada peeked into the room; seeing her sister inside, she walked to the couch (in a much slower pace than Haylie), and climbed up to sit next to her.

"What are we doing?" she asked, whispering into her older sister's ear.

"We are going to hold Ellie," Haylie answered – also whispering –, having no problem with involving Ada.

"Okay," the smaller girl nodded solemnly. "Then I'm staying."

In the meantime daddy leaned over the crib and reached into it with both hands, gently lifting the baby; Haylie excitedly perked up. Holding Ellie to his chest, daddy walked to the couch, then kneeled in front of it.

"Hold out your hand!" he told Haylie, helping to get her arm into position, then he was lifting the baby again, this time placing her in Haylie lap. "Be careful with her head!"

And Haylie was careful, slipping her arms gingerly under Ellie's round head, covered with soft, tiny hairs. Ellie really was small, but this close, not _that_ small – she was bigger than Haylie's lap, her little legs lying on Ada's thighs as she rested her chin on Haylie shoulder. Also, this close, Ellie was warm and soft and had some really sweet baby smell. And she was looking up at her, her dark blue eyes big and round.

Mesmerized, Haylie reached out with her free hand, and brushed her fingertips along Ellie's little hand, drawing them into her palm; Ellie's fingers clasped around her index finger right away (she could hear Ada gasp and then giggle). Haylie was startled for a moment, ready to pull her hand from Ellie's grasp, but then the baby grinned, showing Haylie her toothless gums.

She was funny in a strange, adorable way.

Well, maybe it won't be that bad with her, she thought.

Haylie then suddenly raised her head, looking up at her daddy.

"I like her," she told him with total conviction. "We can keep her."


	96. Picture Perfect (II)

**Picture Perfect**

The keys feel so strange in his hand as he opens the front door – after living in a S.H.I.E.L.D. base for nearly three years, where everything opened with keycards and codes, having an actual house with an actual front door that opens with a key feels absolutely surreal.

But it's real – the ownership papers in the desk drawer (or at least somewhere in that area) bear his and Skye's name.

He grins like a fool whenever he thinks of it.

The hallway is quiet as he enters the house, the towering box-mountains by the walls engulfed in shadows; there's still a lot of stuff to unpack – stuff that they have either collected during their years at the Playground, or have brought recently at Ikea (surprisingly, spies don't tend to own too much furniture).

He closes the door behind himself, and loosens the tie around his neck. Just another day at the office and then the sweet return to home, he thinks with a hint of irony as he shrugs off his suit jacket – only that his day at the office consisted of meetings on the topic of a possible strike on Syria.

Carelessly tossing the jacket aside, letting it fall where it may, he moves deeper into the house, and after three steps, hears it – the faint sound of tinkling laughter and the joyful squeals of a child. The corners of his mouth pulling into a smile, he follows the sound.

He finds them in the dining room – or at least what will be the dining room someday –, sitting on the hardwood floor amidst the complete chaos of power cords, papers, toys, and other random objects. Unwilling to disturb their moment, he stands at the door, silent, watching smiling.

Skye is mostly with her back to him, so he doesn't see much more of her than her messy bun, but Haylie's facing him, although her gaze is fixed on her mother. She is wearing a ridiculously mismatches ensemble – a ruffled skirt that is way too big for her (maybe it'll fit next summer), a loose T-shirt that must have been a gift from Fitz, judging by the grinning, cartoonish monkey on the front, and one of Skye's hats, that keeps tilting forward, the rim slipping into her eyes. Not that it bothers Haylie much – with the determination most one-year-olds have, she simply pushes it back, grinning.

It seems like Skye's trying to teach her some kind of nursery rhyme, accompanied by a series of claps and other hands gestures; she is singing the words softly, her gaze fixed on Haylie, holding her hands up, waiting for the little girl to mimic the movement. She does, more or less – she is not doing the routine of the rhyme exactly, but she is having a high time nonetheless, clapping wildly and patting her tiny hands against her mother's palms, grinning and laughing. Not that Skye minds it – she plays along, her wide smile evident in her voice, then, reaching the end of the rhyme, she reaches out and grabs Haylie, starting to tickle her and blowing a raspberry against her neck, making the little girl squeal in delight.

Grant grins himself, reaching into his pocket to fish out his phone.

Five years ago he wouldn't have thought that this – this kind of peaceful domesticity – would be what makes him happy. But it does – oh, it does, Skye and Haylie and their little family makes him happier than he has ever been, and this is something he wouldn't give up for anything, he thinks, before snapping a picture.


	97. Naptime

**A/N:** Just checking: you guys – those who don't follow me on Tumblr – know that there's a whole chronology for my fics featuring Skyeward's daughters, right?

* * *

 **Naptime**

Skye fell in love with this house the moment she first entered it, and there are many places in it that she absolutely adores, but this one – the wide, padded windowsill on the second floor hallway, overlooking the back yard –, is definitely close to the top. She has no actual idea how Heaven would feel like, but stretching out on the soft cushions, her half-naked body – her dress fluttering out, only buttoned over her breasts, leaving her legs and stomach bare – bathing in the sunlight filtered through the branches of the great tree in front of the window must be close.

"Hey," she hears a soft voice from behind her back, and she slightly, lazyly turns her head.

"Hey," she answers as Grant walks up to her, shirtless in the heat, and sits down on the floor by her head. "How did it go?"

His lips curl into a smile.

"It was a tough fight," he answers, keeping his voice down, "but she is finally down."

Skye chuckles, then reaches out, places her hand on his head, and playfully pushes him away.

"Cinderella?"

"And Little Red Riding Hood," he nods chuckling. "She put up a real resistance today," he says all solemnly, making Skye shake with silent laughter. Of course – Haylie is reaching that age when she stubbornly loves to insist she doesn't need an afternoon nap. "And what about this one?" he asks then, leaning his head on her breasts, so he is facing her belly.

Smiling, she places her hand on the gentle curve of her bump, as the taut, uncovered, slightly glimmering skin peeks through the unbuttoned folds of her long, light dress.

"A-ah," she says, shaking her head softly. "Not exactly. I just felt her turn around a bit ago."

Just over halftime with her second pregnancy, she can already feel how different this is child from Haylie.

"It's a bit strange," she says, right hand caressing her belly, while the fingers of her left are buried in his hair. "She's so much… calmer than Haylie was." Haylie was always fidgeting, kicking and turning while she was in her belly, constantly demanding attention; this baby is more subdued, gentler. She moves around, she lets Skye know she's there, but she does it in a shier fashion.

"That's good," Grant murmurs, nuzzling his face against her chest. "I don't know what we would do with another little, overactive monkey."

This makes Skye laugh again.

"Just don't let Fitz hear that you're adopting his nickname – he'll either be jealous, or will get overly eager about it, and we have more than enough monkey stuff as it is."

Grant merely snorts at that.

"But if she _is_ a monkey – you weren't home then, but the day before yesterday I had to pull her off the top of the sideboard. She just climbed on, that little monkey," he says softly, then sighs against her skin. "All I'm saying is having a calmer kid wouldn't be too bad."

She doesn't say a thing for a while, just caresses her belly – until her baby makes herself known again, kicking gently against her palm, making Skye smile.

"What will we do with two kids?" she asks after a while, more from herself than form him.

"We'll manage," he assures her, his eyelids dropping, either out of contentment or because of tiredness. "We have handled worse."

"Like megalomaniacs striving for world domination?"

"Exactly. And aliens wreaking havoc on the streets."

"Evil organizations coming out of the shadows."

"Your father."

"Which one?"

"Touché," he admits, making both of them laugh. Then the comfortable silence envelops them again, his face pillowed on her breast, his skin warm under her fingertips; his sleepiness slowly seeps into her, too, making it difficult to keep her eyes open.

"Hey," she says softly, making him look up at her. "While our little monkey princess is sleeping, what do you say about a proper nap? Like in bed, not on the floor?" she adds with a playful wiggle of her eyebrows. "You know, I could use some throughout cuddling."

She has barely finished the sentence when he is already on his feet, his arms slipping under her knees and around her back, lifting her up in bridal style; she lets out a little, startled squeal, careful not to wake Haylie.

"I thought you'd never ask," he says, kissing her as he starts walking towards their bedroom.


	98. The Task at Hand

**A/N:** I'm alive! Sorry for the lack of updates – university is keeping me pretty busy, plus I have been working on a longer story (that hopefully be published sometime next week). But until then, thank you for your patience!

* * *

 **The Task at hand**

Grant Ward has been trained for a great many things – diffusing bombs, shooting targets from a thousand yards, hand-to-hand combat, and every conceivable form of espionage. But not for this.

Definitely not for this.

He just wanted to be a considerate boyfriend – because that's what he was now, a Boyfriend, with a capital B, and he had been for fifteen days (not that he was counting), and although he had absolutely zero experience in this occupation, he was determined to make a good one, because Skye deserves that. (Hell, she deserved the world, neatly wrapped with a bow on the top, and if it was up to him, that's what she was getting.)

But back to the original problem – so he was on his way back to the Bus after running an errand for Coulson, and he stopped at a store to get a couple of things (like pretzels for Fitz, because that always seemed to disappear from the galley), and, being the thoughtful boyfriend he was (he strived to be), he shot a text to Skye, asking her if she needed anything.

This is where his problems started.

 _Could you grab me some tampons, please?_ her message read.

He must have either paled or went beetroot red when he read it, he isn't sure, and he stared at the message for a couple of seconds, but then mentally shook himself and, intent on the task, went to find the aisle that housed this kind of product. It was just grabbing a cardboard box from a shelf; no big deal. He could do this, easily. No reason to freak out or feel ashamed, or anything.

Only it was a big deal, he realized as soon as he reached the shelf he needed.

Because who would have thought that that there were so many kinds of tampons? There were different sized and colored boxes, there were scented ones and tampons with different texture, and some came with cute little tin boxes. It was puzzling.

And honestly, how he was supposed to choose?

At first, he was determined not to call or text Skye – he wanted to look competent (because what would it tell about their relationship is he failed to do this little task on his own?), and that meant being able to choose the right one on his own.

So he spent the next ten minutes comparing the different tampons, with strategic precision – price per piece, what kind of materials were used, size, any other attributes. But even after having read the back of at least a dozen boxes, he still wasn't any smarter, so he tried another strategy – choosing simply the one that felt the most sympathetic.

(Oh, God, he was pathetic…)

So he grabbed a box and carelessly tossed it into the cart. But then a second later he reached for it again, pulled it out, set it back on the shelf, and reached for another.

After his fourth try, he admitted it wasn't working, so he gave up and texted Skye.

 _What kind do you need?_ , he wrote, then stared the his phone's screen impatiently.

While waiting for her answer, his mind really started to go overdrive – because, yeah it was just a tampon, and anyway, why should he have known what kind of tampon she used? But it also made him realize that there were too many things he didn't know about her – like, even after living together on the Bus for three months, he still had absolutely no idea how she handled her periods (hell, he didn't know how any woman dealt with her cycle, period). Or what kind of shower geln-she used. Did she prefer Chinese or Thai food? Cats or dogs? Did she fold her socks or rolled them up?

Thankfully, the next moment his phone chimed.

 _The brand doesn't matter. The simplest you can find, middle sized._

Then, a second later:

 _Thank you! I 3 you_

There's no nice to put this – he grinned like an idiot as he read this.

Encouraged by that little heart, he picked up a box that matched Skye's criteria (and then added two other boxes from different brands, just for good measure), while thinking that he might not have known what kind of tampon to buy, but he knew other, more important things – like how she liked her coffee, and that she loved to cuddle, and that she had the sweetest laugh he's ever heard and that her hair smelled like a forest meadow in the Spring, amongst thousand and thousand other things.

And that's what mattered, right? Everything he could pick up over time.

(By the way, he also ended up buying her some chocolate and a teddy bear, because yeah, she deserved the whole world wrapped up, topped with a bow.)


	99. Mommy, Baby, Belly

**Mommy, Baby, Belly**

Skye won't lie – she loves her little naptime with her daughter. The cuddles, the kisses, the sweet baby smell and the soft baby locks in her face as Haylie dozes on her chest, her little head nuzzling against her neck. Now, if only Haylie would sleep as long as she does – that would be absolutely perfect.

But no – it seems like at almost two and a half years old, her daughter needs less sleep (at least less naptime) than her dear mommy at nine months pregnant.

But at least she is being absolutely adorable about it.

The first thing that pulls Skye from her light slumber is the absence of Haylie's warm weight from her chest; the second is the feel of tiny hands on her belly. Smiling to herself, and unable to miss this scene, she cracks an eye open, but doesn't say a word.

Haylie is sitting next to her on the bed, pillow marks still on her face and her curls in an absolute mess, but her eyes are alert as she watches Skye's bump. Tilting her head to one side, she leans a little closer, inspecting curiously, then places her hands on Skye's belly again, pushing her shirt up and exposing the taut skin.

Humming something under her breath, Haylie runs her tiny palms along the curve of Skye's baby bump, seemingly absolutely fascinated, a little smile slowly blossoming on her face; it's a lovely sight, and Skye just can't keep herself from grinning. Then the next moment Ada feels like it's time to make herself know, and kicks – right against Haylie's hand, as if she wanted to greet her big sister. Haylie, not having expected it, is of course startled – she lets out a little yelp and jerks away from her mother's belly, with such an adorable look on her face that Skye just can't help it, and lets out a laugh.

Haylie, having realized that her mother is, in fact, awake, looks at her reproachfully for a fraction of a second, then her trauma forgotten she climbs over to her and cuddles against Skye.

"That baby?" Haylie asks once she is settled comfortable, gesturing towards Skye's bump. Skye grins and leans down, kissing the top of Haylie's head.

"Yeah, there's a baby inside."

Haylie looks up at her, slight doubt in her wide, brown eyes.

"You sure?" she asks, making Skye laugh again.

"Yeah, I'm sure," she answers, trying to somewhat tame Haylie's locks with her fingers. "We have seen pictures of her, remember?"

Haylie wrinkles her nose.

"Funny pictures."

"Yeah, those pictures are really funny," Skye chuckles, thinking of the black-and-white ultrasound photos they have shown Haylie. "And you just felt her move, didn't you?"

Haylie turns towards her once again, looking slightly offended.

"Baby hurt me," she says with trembling lips.

Skye gathers her into her arms, holding her close and kissing her cheek before Haylie could start crying.

"Oh, no, princess, she didn't," she reassures her firstborn. "She was just saying hello, okay? You know, as long as she is in mommy's belly, she can't say hello any other way."

Haylie looks at her, wide eyed.

"Really?"

"Yep."

"Does she say hello to you too?"

"All the time," Skye nods. Oh, if only Haylie knew!

"Daddy too?"

"Of course."

Having concluded that the kick was not an attack on her person, Haylie detaches herself from Skye's arms, and crawls over to her bump once again, splaying her tiny hands on it.

"Hi, baby," she says, leaning so close that her lips are almost touching Skye's skin. There's a moment of silence and stillness, then Ada kicks again, softer this time, but hitting Haylie's palm again. Only this time expecting it, Haylie squeals in delight.

"Mommy!" she all but shouts (Skye is sure that if Grant is back at home, he's heard it), clapping her hands together. "Baby say hello!"

"That she did," Skye grins, placing her own hand on her bump.

Encouraged by the exchange, this time Haylie actually lays her head on Skye's belly. She closes her eyes, listening in complete stillness for a moment, then opens them again, and looks at Skye.

"When baby here?"

Skye lets out a soft grunt as she sits up.

"Soon, princess." She still has a week until her due date, but if the soft tightening she's just felt is any indicator, Ada will be here a little sooner. "Really soon."

"Oh," Haylie sighs, caressing Skye's belly lovingly. "Good. I wanna play with her."

Skye chuckles at that, then raises a hand to smooth back Haylie's hair.

"Oh, you'll get to play with her a lot," she assures her daughter.

"Great," Haylie grins, then turns her head slightly, and presses a kiss against Skye's belly. "I love you, baby."

It might be just the hormones messing with her, but Skye can barely keep herself from crying (okay, so she might shed a couple of tears); she is just so blessed with her family.


	100. Birthday Surprise

**Birthday Surprise**

The first thing that makes him worry when he gets back from his mission is that Skye's not waiting for him in the hangar like she always does – biting her lip and worrying the hem of her shirt, not completely calm until she sees him alive and whole, no matter that he previously reported through the comms that he's okay. So yeah, her not being there is not normal, not at all (and okay, he is kind of missing his "welcome back" kiss).

The second is when he can't find her in their bunk either. Because, after all, it is past ten p.m., and she must have had a stressful day, so it would be totally understandable if she already went to bed (especially now; at nineteen weeks pregnant, she needs her rest). But no, the bed is untouched – well, not really, because the sheets are messy as an evidence of her unwillingness to make the bed in the morning, and his pillow is pulled over to her side (the bed must have gotten lonely the night before when he wasn't there next to her, so she stole it; she tends to do that), but still, the bed is empty and the sheets are cold.

Fighting down his – completely unnecessary – anxiety (if something was wrong, somebody would have told him already), he quickly showers and changes, then, his hair still wet, he sets out to find her.

But she's not in the gym, nor in the lab, and FitzSimmons swear they haven't seen her since late afternoon. He also checks Coulson's office and the server room, but nothing (hell, he even knocks at Bobbi's door, hoping for the other woman having seen her, but when all the answer he gets from inside is some hurried scrambling and Hunter's annoyed grunt, he gives up).

His last shot (which he approaches while contemplating about _why exactly this base has to be so big_ and _why can't Skye wear some kind of tracking device_ ) is the kitchen, which is, again, a plausible place for her to be – even if it doesn't really explain why she wasn't in the hangar to great him (and no, he's not bitter about that).

And when he opens the kitchen door, lo and behold, there she really is – being such a sight that he can't help but laugh.

The room, and especially the counter, looks like it has been hit by a smaller hurricane – there are dirty puts and splotches of milk and spilled flour and other substances all around. Skye herself doesn't look any better – she even has a smear of something blue (maybe icing?) on her cheek, and the red of her shirt is almost completely hidden under the flour she's gotten all over herself. She looks adorable.

Even though she didn't hear him come in, she lifts her head in an instant upon hearing his laugh. Her eyes go wide in alarm, and she jumps in front of the counter before he could see what is actually on it that she is trying to hide.

"Shit!" she lets out involuntarily, then "Out!" she orders, coming towards him, trying to get him out of the room.

The fact that she's wearing fuzzy, rainbow colored socks and her hair is held back with what appears to be a pen and half a pair of chopsticks, plus the blue smear on her cheek, doesn't help her case to look menacing. No, all she accomplishes is that he grins down at her, grabs her shoulders when she gets close enough, and kisses her (yeah, he really did miss their "welcome back" kiss).

"Why should I get out?" he asks cheekily when he lets her go, earning an indignant huff from her.

"You are not supposed to see it," she says a little ruefully, not meeting his eyes. "It's not ready, and…" she gives him a little, defeated shrug.

"What?" he blinks, but then glancing over her head, he suddenly sees what she's talking about (not that it takes a genius to get it).

His mouth pulling into an amused smile, he sidesteps her, and walks to the counter.

There's a cake on it. An ugly cake. Well, something that at least resembles a cake. It's mostly circular, but the edges are not clear, and the sponge cake looks rather lumpy. The white icing the covers the whole cake is uneven, and the blue decoration is only half done. And the whole thing looks like it's about to fall apart.

It's only then when he realized what day it is – January 7th. His birthday. Hah – if it's not for the cake, he would have completely forgotten it.

"I really wanted to surprise you with it," Skye says, suddenly at his elbow, tears in her eyes. "I spent most of the afternoon with making it, but I burned the first batch, then the second simply tasted horrible, and this one…" she sniffs, hand on her bump. "This one looks like Frankenstein's cake. I totally messed it up."

He really doesn't want her to feel like he's mocking her, but he just can't help laughing. So he reaches for her and draws her against his body until she is flush against him, her face buried into his chest.

"I love it," he tells her with absolute honesty, kissing the crown of her head.

"But it's ugly," she protests.

"It's beautiful," he counters. "Did you know that nobody has ever baked me anything before? Only you."

"Really?" she sniffs, raising her had.

"Really," he nods. "And I really do love it. So," he says gesturing towards the cake, "what do you say we cut it up, and see how it tastes?"

She actually gives him a teary smile.

"Okay, but I can't guarantee that it's actually edible," she chuckles. "And when that's done… we can go back to our bunk. You know, it's not the only gift I prepared for you."

He can't help but smile mischievously at that.

"I think it's my best birthday yet."


	101. Let Me Lie to Myself

**Let me Lie to Myself**

You can't sleep.

You made a big mistake, a grave one, you think, and it's keeping you awake. And yet you are not running, trying to erase the last couple of hours from your existence – the fight, the harsh words, and then eyes lock and lips meet and clothes are torn and he is inside you –, no, you are only turning your back to him, lie on your side, curled up, and hope that he's asleep. (Because how can something so wrong feel so right, be so good?)

You can't sleep or move or do anything, but one thing – think about what tomorrow will bring –, but that's the last thing you want to do.

You don't want to deal with what is coming next.

Because he was gentle and loving with you and kissed your scars and made your sigh, but it was just sex for you, good sex, but just sex. You don't want it to be anything but sex, angry, ruthless, long overdue sex (even though you _know_ it wasn't that).

You can't deal with anything more than that.

But now he must think that everything is forgotten; that the past is the past, and you two can start a new chapter on fresh pages, written in ink of the legends, not in blood. (It must make him happy, relieved. He smiled that smile earlier, that smile from the early days, when you two teased each other in the cargo hold and played board games and everything was right in the world.)

But you can't. Not now, not ever.

(But then why do you want that?)

He wakes; or he has been awake all along, just still. His hand, calloused from years of fighting, is on the curve of your waist, testing the waters, feeling the soft skin. You get goosebumps.

Then you feel the mattress dip and his warm breath is on your neck. His lips are hot and soft and perfect, and for a moment you forget that you are supposed to hate him.

(Not like you actually hate him.)

He moves closer, and his body aligns with yours, and it feels great, and in spite of yourself you relax, and there's a fire inside you that was raging a couple of hours ago that is now rekindling, and what harm would it do to let him in again? To let him worship your body?

(It's just a body; it's just chemistry, the work of the hormones and the nerves, and it makes you feel good; it has nothing to do with the past or regrets or betrayals. In the act, you cease to be people – in the act, you are just bodies seeking pleasure.)

So it's completely okay.

But then his lips are at your ear, and he is whispering into it.

"Skye, I lo–"

You jump up like you were hit by lightning. (No, you don't want to hear that, no, he can't say that, no, he can't feel that way, no, he can't say that to you…)

You leap out of bed, naked and bare, in every sense of the word, but you are too scared to care about it.

"No," you say sharply, the word a hiss on your lips. "Don't you dare to say that!"

He rises too, the sheets falling away – he is baring himself to you, too.

"Skye, I–"

"No!" you shout, franticly, then push your hair out of your eyes. "You can't say that, do you understand? Not now, not ever… I…" You look around, panicked, then give up. It's no use. You pick up your clothes from the floor and turn to go. "I have to leave. Now." You don't even give him a chance to reply; you are already out of the room.

You don't start crying until after you are back to the haven of your own room; but then the tears come like a waterfall.

Sex, you can deal with. And you can pretend to hate him. You can act like you don't care.

But you can't hear him say those three words.

Because then you'd want to say it back, but you can't.


	102. The Phone Call

**A/N:** I just got this prompt from ticklish-super-spy, but decided to work with it – I hope it's okay – mostly because it's an actuality now, and also because I was owing her a story :) (Or a fic based on the new promo pics where Skye and Ward are on the phone)

* * *

 **The Phone Call**

Skye was most definitely not checking the time on her phone every five minutes – only she was.

Which was stupid, by the way. Even though Grant promised (after she made an excellent case for it, one that left him gasping) to call her as soon as he was done, he had no exact timeframe for his mission. The fact that she was stuck in mission control for another operation wasn't helping a bit.

So yeah, she kept checking the time – and she thought that fact that by now he was gone for twenty-seven hours for a _freaking flash op_ more than justified her anxiety. (And anyways, she dared anybody to call her out on it; fortunately everybody knew not to aggravate her when she was already on the edge.)

But she had no actual reason to worry, right? If something was actually wrong, like his control team had lost contact, or… _whatever_ , they would have already called her, right? Worst case scenario he got stuck somewhere, and had to wait for his window of opportunity to get out. Or lost his phone. Honestly, knowing his impulsiveness and near-suicidal tendencies, which had led to more than one bold decision during missions, the latter one seemed more likely.

(But if he did lose his phone she was going to kill him.)

They had almost reached the twenty-eight hour mark when her phone finally rang. She fished it out of her pocket right away, but took a deep, calming breath before hitting _Answer_.

"Hi there, Robot," she spoke into the phone, trying to sound cheery. "Everything going alright over there?"

A beat of silence, and then, "Hello, honey."

Skye froze right away. Something was so not right – Grant used to call her babe, and beautiful, and sometimes love, but usually stopped there as far as pet names were concerned; anything cheesier than that was a surefire sign that he was trying to soften the blow of something.

Skye gripped her phone.

"What did you do?"

There was, again, a short silence on the other end of the line, with some faint background noise – most likely as his team was packing up to leave.

"Technically, I didn't do anything," came his tentative answer a second later.

Now, this answer did everything but made her calm. Skye dropped her head and rested her forehead in the palm of her free hand.

" _What did you do?_ " she repeated the question, putting emphasis on every single word.

She actually heard Grant swallow on the other end of the line.

"I got shot?" he said, the sentence coming out suspiciously like a question. "But it wasn't my fault, I swear," he continued, his words coming faster now. "We were ambushed. And it's nothing serious, really – just my shoulder, and it didn't hit anything important, and the bullet has been dug out already."

" _Dug out_ ," she repeated in an exasperated sigh. "Why don't I like the sound of that?"

"I'm fine, Skye, really," he tried to reassure her in a soothing tone.

"Fine, my ass," she replied, maybe a little too sharp. "You were _shot_ , damn it!"

"It's not the first time, sweetheart…"

"And this is supposed to make me feel better?"

Another beat of silence, during which she glared at the technicians around her, who, in the meantime, stopped doing their work, and were staring at her. Yeah, she might have been having a personal conversation in the control room, but they were supposed to be professionals, and anyways, they would have done the same if they had a stupid boyfriend who had a nasty habit of getting himself almost killed.

"So you are okay? You wound has been taken care of?" she said at last with a resigned sigh.

"Yeah – the bullet is out, and the damage is minimal. I should be back to normal in no time."

"Lucky you," she couldn't help the sarcasm seeping into her voice. "I'll still want to know the details when you get home."

"Of course."

"And I'm still going to give you grief about it."

"I know."

"And you are going to rest and heal, do you hear me, Grant Douglas Ward? No more playing hero until the docs give you the all clear, alright?"

"Understood."

"And don't think I'm not mad at you."

"Of course."

"And you are an idiot."

"I'm not going to argue about that with you."

"I love you."

She could almost see Grant smile.

"I love you too, beautiful. See you in a couple of hours." And with that, he hung up.

Skye pushed her phone back into her pocket, then let her head fall back until it met the wall behind her, and let out a loud sigh.

"Moron. I'm in love with a moron." Then shook her head, and got back to work – she had a mission to lead to success.

* * *

She got a text about an hour later.

 _You are aware that my whole team is snickering about how a tiny girl can make me cringe and act like a scolded puppy, right?_

She couldn't help but laugh at that. _Hah, served him right._


	103. Little Secret

**Little Secret**

"I have a secret," Haylie said, all but climbing on the counter, looking at him with a mischievous glint in her big, brown eyes; the way she nibbled on her lower lip told Trip that she was dying to tell him that secret.

"And what's that?" he asked as he cut off the crusts from the sandwiches he'd just made for the girls. Both Skye and Grant was held up at the HQ, so they had asked him to babysit the girls that evening, and he, being The Best Uncle Ever (a title he'd been in constant competition for with Fitz over the last five years – a competition he was definitely winning), readily agreed.

Haylie made a face at him, sitting back in her chair.

"I can't tell you – it's a secret," she shook her head.

"And you're not 'possed tell secrets, Uncle Trip," Ada, sitting next to her sister, agreed promptly, then nodded solemnly.

Chuckling, Trip raised his hands in a surrendering gesture.

"I'm sorry, girls," he told them, pushing the plates towards them. "I promise I won't pry, then." Still chuckling, he turned around the get some juice for the girls from the fridge.

"But," he heard Haylie say as he turned back, "if we didn't tell you, but you just found it out, that would be right, isn't it?" She looked at her little sister; Ada stopped mid-chewing, considered it for a moment, then nodded.

"What don't you say," Trip said slowly as he poured some juice for them, then leaned on the countertop. "And how am I supposed to find this secret out?" he asked, deciding to take part in this little game. After all, what harm could it do? Haylie's big secret was most likely about something that happened in school.

"Well," Haylie started, making an exaggerated thinking face. "I could give you _hints_."

"Hm… what kind of hints?"

"Weeeell…" she continued, drawing out the word, and looking once again at Ada, looking for encouragement. The three-year-old nodded eagerly, a grin on her face, and a drop of mayonnaise on her chin. Trip reached out and wiped that off with a napkin.

"Well?" he prompted.

"This secret is about a small thing," Haylie continued, sitting up straighter. "Something you can't see yet."

"Hm, interesting… Is it in the room?"

"No!" the girls giggled, as if what he had just said was extremely funny.

"Okay, so where it is?" he asked, moving quickly to avert Ada knocking over her glass.

"You can't ask that!" exclaimed Haylie just as Ada said, "With Momma!"

Trip furrowed his brows. This big secret was with Skye?

"Really?" he asked, leaning forward. "And why does your momma have it?"

The girls looked at each other, and did their silent communication thing that always equally amazed and creeped him out. Then Haylie turned back towards him and spoke for both of them.

"If anybody else had it, it would be reeeeaaally weird."

Trip gave her a little nod.

"You don't say."

"But I do."

(This point Trip just couldn't help the chuckle that escaped his lips; these girls were precious.)

"Okay, okay," he said, leaning back a bit. "So this secret of yours is about something small that I can't see, and that is with your momma."

Haylie nodded again, then took a bite from her sandwich, and tried to answer him with her mouth still full, so he had to remind her to swallow first.

"Yes," she said when the bite was down. "But it's not my secret."

"Then whose?"

"Mommy and daddy's."

"Hm…" Trip said again, rubbing his jaw. So the secret might have been something of importance after all. "And is it a good secret?"

Both girls grinned, Haylie showing her missing tooth.

"A veeeery good one," the older girl said. "Mommy and daddy are very happy about it."

"That's good…" he said absent-mindedly, thinking about what the girls had told him so far – truth to be told, now he was really interested in what this secret was –, then something Haylie had said suddenly registered in his mind. "Wait – did you say that I can't see it _yet_?"

"Yep," Haylie answered, pulling her knees under herself and grinning at him, sensing that they were close to solve this little mystery. "Because it's small now."

Trip grinned.

"But it's gonna grow big?"

"Reeeally big," quipped in Ada, drawing the contours of a big belly in the air in front of herself.

Now Trip couldn't even wipe the grin off his face if he wanted.

"That's very interesting."

"Uncle Trip, Uncle Trip!" Haylie leaned over the counter, patting his forearm impatiently. "Do you know what this secret is now?"

"I guess I do, chipmunk" he answered, just as he heard Skye and Grant's car roll onto the driveway and park in front of the house. "Wait here for a moment, will you?" he asked the girls, momentarily preventing them to run to their parents; he wanted to have a few words with them first. When the girls nodded, once again immersed in their dinner, he stood up and left the kitchen.

He got to the hall just as the front door opened and Skye stepped in, with Grant right behind her. Trip barely gave Skye enough time to register that he was there and open her mouth to greet him, when he swooped her up into a bone-crushing hug.

"Hey," Skye laughed when Trip put her down. "I'm happy to see you too. Were the girls this terrible that you are this glad we are home?"

Trip simply ignored her question, and, grinning down at her, asked, "When were you guys going to tell that you have another bun in the oven?"

Skye stopped in mid-movement as she was shrugging her coat off, freezing for a moment, then her posture relaxed and her shoulders dropped. She let out a little sigh, and with a small smile on her face, she turned towards her husband.

"I told you they can't keep it a secret."

Grant, his coat still in his hand, looked down at her almost sheepishly, then, with a grin that was not a bit guilty, he shrugged, making all three of them laugh.

(Yeah, Trip didn't mind it either that the cat was out of the bag – and honestly, another Ward baby? He couldn't wait.)


	104. I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas

**A/N:** I wanted this to be up yesterday, but then I was working on my Secret Santa piece till two in the morning, so… Anyway, I told you the picture drabbles will be resurrected! This one is of Skye and Grant's first Christmas in the Haylie/Ada/Ellie storyline (so Christmas of 2013, not long after the HYDRA reveal), and expect the next year tomorrow :) Merry Christmas!

* * *

 **I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas**

Skye was nowhere to be found.

Which, in itself, wasn't that much of a strange occurrence – she had always liked to have some alone time, and when the need for that arose (which happened more and more often these days, in the aftermath of the HYDRA uprising), she liked to hide somewhere, out of sight. And it wasn't even as if it was impossible to find her – one just had to know where to look.

Thankfully, Grant knew exactly where she liked to hide.

He could hear the notes of one of those Christmas songs malls like to play to death around Christmastime the moment he opened the door leading from the cargo bay to the main lounge area of the Bus. The room still bore the marks of the gunfight at the Hub – the glass panels of the command center still hadn't been replaced, and there were stray bullet holes here and there, but right now the place was… strangely inviting.

And in the middle of it, there was Skye.

She was sitting cross legged on the floor, in front of a six-foot-tall plastic Christmas tree (he had no idea where she got that from), facing away from the door, hanging colorful ornaments (again, no clue where they came from) on the lower branches of the tree. All around her, the floor was littered with opened cardboard boxes, stray ornaments, and a string of Christmas lights, plugged in, but laying tangled on the carpet.

"Skye…?" he started carefully, slowly approaching her and her lopsided winter wonderland.

She turned towards him right away, a small, bittersweet smile on her lips.

"Oh, hi," she said, blinking at him, and acting like there was nothing strange about the scene. "Help me out a little?"

He knew her well enough not to ask; she would talk, with time, anyway.

"Yeah, sure," he said instead, crouching down next to her. "What do you want me to do?"

She pushed a box of glass baubles into his hands, and told him where to hang them. He got to work without a word, keeping silent as she softly hummed _White Christmas_ under her breath, waiting for her explanation.

He didn't have to wait for long.

"I was looking forward to it, you know?" she said after a short while, keeping her eyes on the ornament right in front of her. "Christmas, with the team, I mean. Because for the first time… ever, I felt like I had a family. But now? Now it feels kinda wrong to celebrate. And yet, here I am," she shrugged, like it wasn't a big deal, "decorating a tree. Because damn it, I want Christmas. I want to sing carols way off key and drink too much eggnog, and have the team sit around a big table and have a ridiculous Christmas dinner. I want… so many silly things, and I know it's childish, but…" she sniffed, wiping a single tear from her cheek. "I want that."

Grant swallowed; he was not good with words, let alone with crying girls. But still, he just couldn't stand seeing her so distressed, so he sat down next to her and pulled her close until her face was nuzzled against his chest.

"It's not childish," he told her, kissing the top of her head. "Actually it's kind of… endearing. That you can think of these things even now. The world needs people like you – and we need some holiday cheer, if you ask me." He pushed her gently away, so he could give her a quick kiss on the lips. "And Skye, nothing would make me happier than to celebrate Christmas with you this year."

She let out a teary, little chuckle.

"Wow," she said, a tentative grin forming on her lips, "I never would have guessed that you'd be one to advocate the 'holiday cheer.' I have kinda pegged you as a Grinch."

It was Grant's turn to smile.

"Well, yeah, I've already bought your gift, and forgoing Christmas would mean wasting that, so…"

Her eyes widened right away.

"What? And what did you get me? Grant! What did you get me?"

He chuckled at her excitement and kissed her again.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but it's not Christmas day yet. And anyways, shouldn't we finish the tree first?" he teased.

"Oh, I hate you right now," was all her retort, but she delivered it grinning, already turning back towards the tree, the next ornament in hand.

(He woke her early, cruelly early on Christmas morning, saying that it was time to open the presents. She didn't get it first, sleep-addled as she was, but then he led her to the Bus's lounge, where the whole team – wearing PJs and robes – was waiting for them, and then she understood it. He gave her what she really wanted – a real Christmas, spent with her family.)


	105. Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas

**Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas**

Skye tore the paper away mercilessly, letting the festive-printed scraps fall to the floor, joining their already fallen friends. Once freed from the wrapping, she lifted her gift – and let out a laugh.

"Oh, no, you didn't…" she heard Bobbi sigh, which was followed by a slap to the back of Hunter's head right away (the offended party let out an indignant "hey!" at the assault). "Forgive him, Skye, he's always lacked tact."

Skye stared at her gift for a moment longer, still grinning, then shook her head, remembering that she was supposed to react somehow.

"No, no, I like it," she said, slipping her new shirt on. "I think it's funny," she continued, smoothing the material down, and running her hands over her abdomen in the process. "Thank you."

She really did find the gift amusing – it was a simple, long sleeved, black T-shirt, with _"Does my tum look big in this?"_ emblazoned in bold, white letters on the front. Considering she really was sporting a baby tummy by now, she thought it was kind of self-ironic and hilarious.

True, she didn't have that much of a bump yet – at seventeen weeks (well, almost seventeen – officially, she was turning seventeen weeks the next day), she had more of a gentle curve, something that was not so flashy yet, but still a definite sign that there was a baby in there. Not that her teammates (let alone Grant) allowed her to forget that – these days everything seemed to be centered around her pregnancy, even Christmas. Most of the gifts she and Grant received were baby-themed: picture books from Coulson, onesies with funny stuff written on them from Trip, a stuffed monkey from Fitz, which Skye could swear was bigger than her baby would be upon birth, a baby blanket from May, and there was even a box, shipped straight from Scotland, containing hand-knitted items, sent by Mama Fitz – and now this shirt from Hunter.

(It might have been her stupid pregnancy hormones, but she was so touched by their teammates' sweetness, she felt close to crying.)

"Well, it does look great on you," said Grant, slipping an arm around her waist as she leaned back against him on the couch. She turned towards him, grinning.

"Yeah, and I hope you know what the appropriate answer if I ask you this," she teased, pointing at the inscription and sticking out her tongue at him, making everybody in the room laugh.

"Don't worry," he answered, pressing a kiss to her forehead, "I know – I have good survival instincts." This triggered another round of laughter, and earned him a playful slap on the bicep.

The gift exchange soon continued, with the next package carelessly tossed by Mack to Hunter (who could barely catch it, making the people in the room chuckle again). The attention momentarily shifted from her, Skye settled back, burrowing herself into Grant's embrace, intertwining their fingers together, and pulling his hand forward, until his palm rested on her bump.

A year ago – even half a year ago – she would have never guessed she would be here today – making jokes and sharing laughs, her family intact, sort-of-happy and ready to get bigger. They had been through a lot, a lot of heartbreak and a lot of mess, and although she wished they could have avoided some if it, right then she wouldn't have traded places with anyone.

Using Hunter and Mack's snickering banter as a cover, Grant nuzzled his nose against the side of her neck, and whispered into her ear, "I love you," punctuated by a small kiss.

Skye smiled, not taking her eyes off the scene in front of her.

"We love you too," she answered, and, almost as if she wanted to join the conversation, their baby nudged against her palm.


	106. Meet and Greet

**Meet and Greet**

Her eyes closed and her tiny, little nose wrinkling, Haylie let out a huge yawn, making Skye giggle.

Barely ten hours old and infinitely cute, Skye was already madly in love with her daughter – she was well worth all the discomfort of the past months and the sixteen hour labor. She was absolutely perfect and adorable and… a million other adjectives her exhausted brain couldn't come up with at the moment.

And, thankfully, she was not the only one who thought that.

"Oh, look at that!" Bobbi cooed, her voice rising at least half an octave (making her sound nothing like her regular, baby-less self) as she settled down on a chair next to Skye's bed. "Oh my God, she is so tiny!" she continued, reaching towards Haylie with a single finger, caressing the back of the baby's hand with her fingertip. "Can I…?"

"Um, what?" Skye asked, confused for a moment, then slowly nodded, shifting Haylie in her arms. "Yeah, sure – just be careful, support her head…" she instructed, like an oh-so-experienced parent (which she was not) as she, just a little bit reluctantly, handed her dozing newborn to Bobbi (she already missed her warm weight).

Ever since being born in the morning, only Fitz, Coulson, and, of course, Jemma had seen Haylie, and now, in the late afternoon, Skye thought it was high time to introduce the newest member of the team to her family – and so far, Haylie had achieved roaring success. Not that she was aware of it.

"You know, she is kind of cute – as far as newborns go," Hunter quipped in, leaning on the back of Bobbi's chair, and looking down at the baby over her shoulder. "Ward, are you sure she's yours?" he then added, turning Grant. "I mean, I can clearly see Skye in her, but there's none of your…" he wave one hand in the air, pretending to be looking for the right words.

Skye half-expected some razor-sharp remark from her better half (there were times when Grant had a hard time tolerating Hunter's humor, after all), but he only smiled, and said, "You're lucky, Hunter – I'm too happy to get pissed off at you. But don't worry, I won't forget this," he continued, tapping his temple with two fingers, "and remember it when I need somebody for diaper duty."

Skye chuckled at that – already imagining Lance wrestling with Haylie and a diaper –, and leaned back against Grant, who was sitting half behind her, half next to her on the bed. She had mostly slept through the day, but she was still bone-deep tired and awfully sore – but she guessed that was somehow expected if one spent the whole night coming down from contraction after contraction, then pushing out something the size of a bowling ball out of her body.

In the meantime, Haylie was carefully transported from Bobbi's arms to Mack's – her tiny baby almost completely covered by his huge palms.

"I hate to agree with Hunter," he said in a calm, low voice (making Hunter snicker), "but you two really make beautiful babies. Because you are absolutely beautiful, baby girl, yes you are," he continued, switching to all-on cooing, and addressing his words solely to Haylie (there was something hilarious about this mountain of a man acting like a teddy bear with her baby, and it brought a silly, happy grin to Skye's face).

Only, the next moment Haylie opened her eyes, blinked at Mack, then, following a moment of silence full of suspense, she started crying – loud and miserable enough that one would have thought she was being murdered. Mack froze right away, his eyes going wide, a terrified look on his face.

"I swear I didn't do anything."

"Of course you did – you broke her," Hunter supplied helpfully.

"I didn't! Here, take her," Mack went on trying to thrust Haylie into the arms of the person closest to him – Trip.

"Don't look at me!" the specialist– who had been merrily chuckling at his teammates' antics until that very moment – protested, holding his hands up, looking almost as scared as Mack. "I know nothing of babies!"

"Give her to me!" Fitz joined the conversation, reaching for Haylie with a kind of confidence he really hadn't shown that morning when he had been first offered to hold the baby.

"Are you sure that's…"

"Maybe we should…"

"Guys," Skye tried to get their attention in the brewing chaos that was only making Haylie cry harder. "Hey, guys–"

"That's enough!" said May quietly, but with such a power that everybody – not counting Haylie – fell silent right away. "I think that's enough for today," she declared, taking the wailing newborn from Mack with ease, soothingly rocking her as she walked over to Skye, and gently handed the baby to her, then turned to the small army of visitors. "Out with you, now," she said, not unkindly. "They need peace and quiet – something that's impossible with all of you here."

She didn't even have to raise her voice to get her point across; the members of the team slowly stood up and left the room waving goodbye and promising to check in on them – one by one – the next day (Hunter even blew a kiss to the baby), until only the new family and May remained.

The older woman smiled fondly at Haylie – who, once again in her mother's arms, and with the strangers and the loud noises gone, was calm again –, then leaned in, and kissed the baby's tiny forehead.

"They are right, you know," May told them in a soft voice when she stood up, "she really is beautiful. You did great. Now, try to get some rest – I'll make sure they don't bother you." And with that, she, too, started walking towards the door.

"Hey," Skye called after her, making her stop. "Thank you, grandma," she said, smiling.

May didn't say a word – but it was all written on her face, in the gentle curve of her lips and the light in her eyes, as she left the room.


	107. Survivor

**Survivor**

He flatlined.

Skye guessed that was the right terminology – he flatlined. Not that it mattered (still, it's a stupid phrase, if you ask her).

What mattered was that his heart stopped. It literally stopped – ceased beating, because he was stupid, stupid, stupid, playing a hero and downplaying injuries.

He got shot – but he _always gets shot_ , he'd tell her if he'd be here now –, and he acted so much like on the first (second?) day, when there was a red patch on his white T-shirt, and he told her that it was _skin deep, nothing to worry about_. Only this time it wasn't skin deep, only this time the bullet bit deep into his flesh, tearing up his muscles, and blood was pouring from between his fingers as he pressed his hand to the wound, and yet he still looked at her with a smirk hiding in the corner of his mouth, saying that he'll be okay. The next moment he collapsed.

That lying bastard.

They brought him back to the base as fast as they could, and she remained by his side all the way back, hand pressed to his side, trying to staunch the blood flow, and talking to him, telling him not to dare to fall asleep and leave her and die, but she could only hope he'd obey.

He already lost consciousness by the time he was off the plane.

His heart stopped beating by the time he reached the med bay.

That was when she left – she hated herself for it, but she just couldn't watch, couldn't watch life slowly drain from his body, couldn't watch the man she loved die.

So she ran out, ran down the corridor, far enough that she couldn't even hear what was going on, and then – then she collapsed.

Her legs giving up, she fell to the floor, back against the cold bricks, and she started crying – sobbing, struggling for breath, eyelashes drenched in tears, her face buried in her hands (her hands… her hands were covered in his blood, still almost warm, and she smeared it all over her face, and she just couldn't care).

He couldn't die – he just couldn't.

Grant Ward was constant. Grant Ward was a survivor – he survived years of abuse, he survived turning his back on his "savior", he survived going against HYDRA, he survived everything. A bullet, a tiny, little bullet couldn't end him…

And if it did, she'd die with him, because there was no world she was interested in which didn't have Grant Ward in it.

Hours could have passed – she had no idea – before somebody approached her. It was Jemma, drops of blood on her lab coat, sinking down to the ground next to her.

She looked at her with such heart-wrenching pity, Skye almost started crying again, even though she had been long out of tears by then.

"You look like a mess," Jemma told her gently, pulling a tissue from her pocket. "Let me…"

She barely moved as Jemma tried to get the blood off her face (there wasn't really a point, but why not? Not that it mattered), gently wiping her cheeks with the tissue, turning the snow-white material into scarlet.

"He's out of surgery," Jemma said quietly. "He's lost a lot of blood, and flatlined one more time, but… they have been able to repair the damage. He's still in critical condition, and the next twenty-four hours are crucial, but… he's alive."

The _for now_ was implied.

Skye nodded weakly.

"He'll pull through," she said with more confidence than she had, sniffing. "What's a bullet wound to the great Agent Grant Ward?"

Jemma chuckled, a wet, pained sound, then reached for her, and pulled her close.

They'd keep vigil together.


	108. Late Night Visitor

**A/N:** Feels nice that once again I was able to churn out a whole, round story in one sitting :) A little background info on this one: I save all the pics as prompts I get on my PC, and when I was saving this one, the original file name contained a segment something like "pregnant woman stops robber," and I fell in love with the idea right away. And… then this story was born.

* * *

 **Late Night Visitor**

If there was one thing Dean Andrews was proud of, it was his great skill to find the perfect target to rob.

Like this family, for example – they just screamed _perfect_. Young, suburban couple with a toddler and the second baby on the way. Hell, they even had a dog. The whole deal was as if they had just stepped off a Hallmark postcard. And on the top of it, the brand new SUV in the front hinted at money – at good electronics and jewelry and maybe even cash inside that were worth stealing. And with the husband away for the night, the wife alone with the kid at home, it was just the _perfect_ night to sneak in.

Getting in was a no-brainer – they had some nice home security system (the guy living there sure prided himself to be such an expert), but honestly, Dean had dealt with more sophisticated stuff; it took him about two minutes to disable the system, and from then on unlocking the back door and walking in was a piece of cake. It even seemed like as if the dog was playing for his team, too – he was sleeping in a basket in the hallway, and although he slightly raised his head when he heard Dean approaching, he simply yawned, and went back to sleep. Good doggie.

Dean got to the living room with no problem, and once there, he could already see that this endeavor was going to be profitable – a high-end laptop was sitting on the coffee table, with some other device next to it (he couldn't identify that stuff, but since it looked expensive enough, he decided to pack up that as well). There was also a tablet there, some older model that, based on a tiny, sticky handprint on the screen, was kept solely for the child to play. He shrugged and reached for that one first – tablets sold well, okay?

Only he never got to actually putting it into his bag.

"I'd put that back to where you found it if I were you," he heard a calm voice from behind his back that made him freeze momentarily. Still keeping the tablet in his hand, he slowly turned around.

It was the wife – cute, petite woman in her mid to late twenties, big eyes, long hair, round belly –, standing on the stairs and pointing a gun at him.

Dean gulped, but decided to play aloof.

"No need to do anything rash, lady," he told her, going for a smug, confident smirk. The woman cocked an eyebrow at him.

"Good to know," she said, with only a hint of sarcasm in her voice, which, honestly, was starting to unnerve him a little.

It was not the first time Dean was caught in the middle of the operation by the folks he was going to rob, but this woman was the first who seemed to be completely unfazed by this; what's more, she almost seemed to be amused by this.

He didn't like that. Not at all.

"Really, lady, be sensible – put that gun down before you hurt–"

He didn't get to finish the sentence, because suddenly a bullet flew right next to his head – close enough that he actually felt the wind of it –, hitting the wall behind him. So he ended up ending his sentence with a, rather girlish, scream. (He didn't even hear a shot! The freaking thing had a built-in silencer!)

"Could you please keep it down?" the woman said, clearly annoyed. "My daughter's sleeping upstairs."

"Right, of course," Dean squeaked out, his voice at least an octave higher than normally. He wasn't proud of that. "But please, put that gun down before…" He swallowed. "Before you hurt somebody." Him, especially.

The woman let out a dry chuckle.

"Please, if I wanted to hit you, you'd have an extra hole on you by now." She was speaking with such a self-assured confidence that Dean couldn't help but believe her. She slowly came down the stairs, still holding the gun in one hand, resting the other on her belly. "Now put that tablet down and sit down nicely. The police will be here shortly."

Dean was so stunned – and a bit terrified, to be honest – that he complied without a question. He put the tablet down, pulled the strap of his bag from his shoulder, then, pulling his bag into his lap, he took a seat on the couch. The woman walked over to him and perched on the armrest of the armchair opposite of him, still casually holding him at gunpoint.

"The police?" he asked almost shyly, just to say something. And because it was a bit unnerving to just sit there and stare at the barrel of a gun.

"Yep," the woman said, sitting up straight. "You set off the silent alarm the moment you stepped on the property," she informed him.

Oh, a silent alarm; he hadn't thought of that.

"So the one I disable was just a –"

"Decoy? Yeah," the woman nodded almost proudly. Definitely proudly. "Actually, it just controls the watering system. My actual home security is a bit more… sophisticated, Mr. Andrews."

Mr. Andrews? How the hell… Oh. Decoy panel, silent alarm _and_ facial recognition. The only thing he couldn't put together was how the hell she accessed the database. Still, he was screwed.

But he didn't get to ponder a lot about it, because the next moment – probably hearing the conversation – the dog trotted in. He looked at Dean with mild disinterest, then walked over to his mistress and sat down at her feet, expecting some head rubs.

The woman chuckled.

"Shame on you," she told the dog, looking at him, to which the dog answered with a lazy wag of his tail. "I'm officially revoking your guard dog status."

Dean saw this as his one opportunity – the woman was distracted, petting the dog; it would only take one swift movement to lounge forward and get the gun, and then – well, then he could get to upper hand; he could run. Although she already knew his name so… Still, it was worth a shot. He flexed his muscles, ready to move, and then…

"Don't even think about it," the woman said, not even looking at him, but ever so casually turning the barrel at him. "I might be pregnant, but don't have any doubts about it – I could take you. And since wiping a bloody nose with a broken hand is not a pleasant thing, I strongly advise you to stay put." By the end of her sentence she was looking at him, smiling at him sweetly.

He returned the gesture somewhat awkwardly and leaned back in his seat.

"It's a, um… it's a very nice house."

* * *

The police – two cars, four officers; it was a nice neighborhood, after all – arrived about ten minutes later (spent with him awkwardly staring at the woman, trying not to make any sudden movements, while she just sat there, looking at him with apparent amusement written on her face, and gun still in hand.

For once, Dean was actually glad that cops had arrived.

They were quick to detain him (after being cautioned by the woman to keep quiet, because there was a toddler sleeping upstairs), giving him a good tap down (finding the knife he had on him, the one even he had completely forgotten about) and cuffing him, not even trying to hide their delight over the fact that he was bested by a petite, pregnant lady.

Still, as he was informed of his Miranda rights (he wasn't paying much attention; he knew them by heart by now), he managed to overhear a bit of the conversation between the woman and the senior officer on scene.

"I hate to be a bother, madam," Dean heard the cop say, "especially after this stressful situation, but this gun you have seems like some serious piece of artillery. You have a license for that, right?"

Dean could just see the woman on the edge of his vision, so he just caught as she nodded after half a second of hesitation.

"It's actually my husband's – he's away on… business right now –, but I can show you my license." She stepped to the table standing close by, picked up the handbag that was sitting on it, and pulled a small, leather case out of it. "I'm sure you'll find no problem with it," she said with a small smile as she handed the case over.

The cop opened it, looked at contents approvingly, accompanied by some low humming and slight nodding, then handed it back to the woman.

"Everything's completely alright," he assured the woman in his most respectful voice. "We'll be on our way right away. And we are sorry for the inconvenience, Agent Ward."

Now, _that_ had Dean blinking – although he had no chance to hear more, as at this point he was escorted out of the house, but he made a point to ask about it as soon as he was loaded into the patrol car.

"Hey, officers," he addressed the two cops sitting in the front. "What was this agent-nonsense? Who was that woman?"

The two cops briefly looked at each other, then laughed.

"I'll give it to you, mate," said the one in the passenger seat, "you are not the luckiest guy. You managed to break in to the house of two S.H.I.E.L.D. agents. But I guess you _are_ sorta lucky – at least the guy wasn't home."

"And you didn't wake the kid," the other added, laughing at his expense.

Dean leaned back in the seat, swallowing hard. So maybe he didn't have such a great skill to find the perfect target.


	109. The Ballet Fiasco

**A/N:** Make-up piece for SkyeWardWeek day 3: fluff (sorry guys, I was working on an essay).

* * *

 **The Ballet Fiasco**

To be honest, Skye have never thought that she would ever get to experience anything like this – attending a freaking open dance lesson, watching her five-year-old do shaky, ungraceful little steps in her adorable pink dress.

Not that she is complaining.

It's a smaller miracle that both her and Grant could come – workload has been heavy at HQ recently; she had a case with a gifted kid in Idaho last week, and he just came back from Chile yesterday –, but they are here now, sitting among other proud parents, like the members any other ordinary suburban family (she wants to laugh).

She barely pays attention as the dance teacher – coach? Instructor? She has no idea what the right term is – steps forward and does her little speech about how great the class is and how much the girls have improved in the last couple of months. Basic pep talk – she has heard enough of these. So instead of the teacher, she focuses on her little girl (her bigger little girl), standing in the line of little, pink tutus, grinning excitedly and waving at them.

She has no clue where Haylie got the idea to get into ballet from – but she did, absolutely out of the blue one day, and with a stubbornness she _could have inherited from either her or Grant_ (Skye is going to stick to this excuse until the end of days) she kept demanding lessons until Skye found a class they could take her to–and a good one, too. Still, it was a bit… odd, to her at least. They were not classy ballet-and-opera people (but she quite enjoyed blaming it on Grant's WASP genes), and Haylie seemed to be too impatient, too restless, too vivid for this kind of dance, at least in her opinion.

And yet, Haylie thoroughly loved the classes.

Finally having finished her speech – making Skye blink as she suddenly comes back to the present –, the teacher steps aside and starts the lesson, first instructing the dozen little girls to form a line along the rail, then starting to give them instructions in a jargon she doesn't understand – and anyway, her eyes are only on Haylie.

Damn, her daughter is adorable. Like super adorable – way more adorable than other kids (and she is not biased, not at all). Haylie is completely focused on the task, even the tip of her tongue is peeking out between her lips as she concentrates. She loses her balance at the third step, Skye notices, but then quickly corrects it, and finishes the set beautifully (Skye claps for her, but then looking around she notices that, according to dance practice rules, this might not be the most appropriate behavior).

But she couldn't care less – it's the other moms' loss.

The class goes on with the girls repeating seemingly the same steps again and again, and honestly, if it wasn't for Haylie, Skye would find the whole deal an absolute bore.

But it seems like she is not alone – she soon stars to notice that Haylie's patience is wearing thin, too. Her concentration falters, she misses a steps, keeps stealing glances towards her family – it's not hard for Skye to see the telltale signs that Haylie is about to get… creative.

"Oh-oh…" she whispers softly. "We are so done."

"It doesn't mean anything yet," Grant tells her under his breath, apparently having noticed the same signs, too.

But before Skye could answer him, Haylie _does_ get creative – she stops doing the steps altogether, looks around the room for a moment almost as if she was lost, then, when her gaze meets her mother's, she grins and turns towards the railing, grabs it, and, before anybody could stop her, she is already pushing herself away from the floor, and the next moment she is hanging upside-down between the wall and the railing, her legs up in the air, her skirt falling down, giving into gravity.

And she is just grinning as the other girls continue their sets and the teacher freezes for a moment, then rushes to her help.

Skye swallows (yep, that's her daughter), then jerks her head towards Grant, wanting to see his reaction. Well, the expression on his face is somewhere between a frown and an I'm-about-to-laugh. He swallows, too, his Adam's apple bobbing as the corner of his mouth twitches.

She almost laughs out loud.

"We are so going to get thrown out," she whispers, giving into her grin.

"We so are," he agrees, staring forward as the mortified dance teacher finally rushes to Haylie to get her off of the rail before she falls.

(Well, Skye has always said that ballet wasn't the best choice for Haylie.)


	110. Shower for Two

**A/N:** I know I have been a bit absent lately, but I'd like to reassure everybody that I'm alive and well, it's just I've been working on another story that isn't coming along the pace I expected it to, so I'm a bit stuck with it – and that's why I decided to take a little break from that, and put something else together in the meantime.

* * *

 **Shower for Two**

They almost literally bump into each other in front of the bathroom door, both clutching little bags of toiletries in their hands, towels under their arms, awkward smiles plastered on their faces.

They are in Denmark, investigating what might be left-behind Asgardian tech in a small town near the German border, and, for the sake of convenience, they are lodging in town. Coulson found the place – it's a little, family-owned guesthouse, basically nothing more than a couple of rooms to be rented on the upper floor, but this is the best a town that barely sees tourists can offer. And it's really nice and has that cozy village-feeling – that's the best way Skye could describe it – you can't really get in the States, but it does have a small flaw: it only has one bathroom.

They do this silly little dance in front of the bathroom for a couple of moments – a play of exaggerated courtesy, both of them offering to let the other take the bathroom first ( _he just wants to shave, it's nothing important; she can wait half an hour with her shower, really_ ), before she lets out an exasperated sigh and puts her foot down.

"Look, it's not like we haven't seen each other naked," she points out; and they have – repeatedly, pleasurably. "And I wasn't planning on monopolizing the sink – I'm sure we can share."

He looks unsure at first, but then the slightest smile tugs at his lips, and he opens the door for her.

"After you."

He takes the sink, taking out his razor and shaving foam, while she steps to the chair by the opposite wall and puts her stuff down on it. Their eyes meet in the mirror as she starts to strip, and yes, it is a bit strange.

So they have had sex – in Dublin for the first time, a little over a week ago, and a couple of more times ever since, once in her bunk, twice in his, once in the back seat of the SUV, and once in a place no-one else on the team should know about, and they are sort of in a relationship, but still, it's a little bit… strange, what they are doing now. It goes beyond the level of intimacy of sex somehow, maybe because she undresses with him watching, and there's nothing sexual about it. It's just, well, it's almost domestic.

Still, she feels his eyes on her as she steps into the tub, and she can even see the razor still in his hand for a moment. She smiles, and she is almost sure she blushes a bit, although she doesn't know why. It's just him and her, and it's nothing he hasn't seen before.

For a moment she thinks about whether she should draw the shower curtain or not, but then she leaves it open – a small courtesy to him, or maybe an attempt to tease him, she is not sure –, then she turns around and starts the water, letting the drops hit her face and soak her hair.

She soaps up her body first, using her usual body wash, and as she runs the foamy loofah over her legs and abdomen, she can't help but wonder – does Grant even love the scent of it? Maybe it's a bit too strong – spicy and vivid and demanding to be felt. But he hasn't mentioned anything about it – they haven't talked about things like this. He has talked about wanting her, desiring her for a long time, and she is almost sure that he has said explicitly that she is beautiful, but the details… They haven't explored the details yet.

Well, he has a nice scent, her mind follows on the thought. Something that reminds her of wood smoke and old bourbon and soft, freshly washed sheets. Part of it comes from a small, nondescript bottle she has seen a couple of time on his shelf in his bunk, but part of it is his natural scent – it is always stronger after training or sex. She likes it, and after that one time when he slept in her bunk, his scent remained on her pillow for hours.

Her body washed, she reaches for the shampoo – only as she is about to squeeze some into her palm, the bottle is taken from her.

"Let me," he says, suddenly standing right behind her. She didn't notice him moving, but he did, and now he is in the tub with her, as naked as she is, his presence envelops her, and he is putting shampoo into the palm of his hand.

He lifts her hair carefully, almost as if he was afraid to touch her, and massages the shampoo into her locks and scalp gently. Skye braces her hands on the tiles.

He has magic hands – not that she hasn't known this before –, and it feels nice to have them on her, have his fingers tangled in her hair as he works on her curls. She closes her eyes in pleasure.

"You have such beautiful hair," she hears him say. "It was the second thing I noticed about you, did you know that? The first was your eyes." He speaks calmly, evenly, his tone warm; it's soothing, like a mug of hot cocoa on a cold night. "I wondered, for a longest time, whether it was as soft as it looked."

Her lips curl into a gentle smile.

"You should have just asked."

"I know – now. Rinse."

She starts the water again and he helps the foam out, shaking her curls loose, the wet strands almost reaching the small of her back. When she stops the water and hands him the conditioner, he takes it without a word.

"And I used to think about how would it feel to kiss you," she confesses softly. "Even back in Peru, when I really wasn't supposed think about such things." She more like feels than hears him chuckle. "You were so… harsh on the outside, but there were those fleeting little moments when you let me see the softness underneath. And that intrigued me. I wanted to know more."

The drops of water drum on the floor of the bathtub; there's a moment of silence before he speaks again, although his hands never stop moving.

"I was afraid that you'd break me – or that I'd break you."

She turns around; looks into his eyes and takes his hands, weaving their fingers together.

"But you won't."

They seal that promise with a kiss.


	111. The Intruder

**The Intruder**

Living on this plane – the Bus, the science twins called it – is still new and strange, and he never sleeps well in new and strange places (the chances of unexpected threats are too high to put his mind to ease), so of course Grant wakes to the first soft, shuffling noise coming from the main area of the plane's middle deck.

He is awake and alert – more or less – in an instant, grabbing the gun he keeps within reach of the bed (old habits die hard), and the next moment he is already at the door, sliding it open the quietest way possible, not to alert the (potential) intruder of his presence.

He sees the guy right away as he steps out of his bunk, his bare feet moving soundlessly over the carpet – the unknown intruder is on his way to the kitchen (or the cage; or the avionics bay – all of them are in the same direction), moving slowly, deliberately, almost clumsily. He is not too tall – around the same height as Fitz, and technically half of his new team, but, based on his blurry outline in the semi-darkness, heavier set than anybody on the plane.

Still, it should be rather easy to neutralize him.

Keeping the gun steady in one hand, he sneaks behind the intruder, coming up close behind him – close enough to catch him if he bolted or be able to disarm him if he tried anything –, then raises his pistol, high enough that it points straight at the guy's heart, and says in his calmest, coldest voice, "Hands in the air and turn around slowly."

Only the intruder doesn't raise his hands or turns around slowly – no, Grant's only halfway through the sentence when he suddenly whips around and… Well, it almost ends in a disaster.

Or at least in a big embarrassment.

So the intruder suddenly turns around.

There's a moment of recognition for him.

And a moment of scare for _her_.

She opens her mouth to scream.

(For a split second he feels like if she screams he'll start shouting.)

Then he drops the gun and puts his hand on her mouth before she could wake up the whole plane.

A second passes in this awkward position.

"Skye!" he says at last, voice breathless, heart beating wildly as he finally lets her go. "What the hell are you doing?"

" _I could ask the same!_ Ward, you scared me half to death!" she snaps in a heated whisper. "I was thirsty!" she continues, and it almost sounds like an accusation. "And what the hell are you doing?"

He takes half a step back. For good measure.

"I heard noises – I thought you were an intruder."

"You are freaking paranoid!" she says, throwing her hands in the air. "We are in a freaking S.H.I.E.L.D. base! Who the hell would sneak into the plane here?!"

(If only she knew…)

He clears his throat.

"Anyway, I was–" he stops mid-sentence, finally getting a good look at her. "Wait – are you wearing – is that a… That's a Chewbacca robe," he ends it as a statement.

And _it is_ a Chewbacca robe he notes to himself, taking a closer look – a big, fluffy, brown robe (there's even an embroidered weapons belt thrown over one shoulder) that is at least two sizes too big for Skye. She even still has the hood on, her hair tucked inside – hence his earlier assessment that the "intruder" is heavy set.

A smile tugs at the corner of his lips despite his best efforts.

Skye huffs and pulls the robe closer to her body.

"Yes, it is," she admits in an almost embarrassed tone. "It's cold up here during the night, I'm a California girl and this robe is cozy, alright? And Chewbacca is cool, anyway," she adds, avoiding his eyes.

"He is," Grant agrees absent-mindedly, although a part of him would rather comment on how cute she looks right now rather than discussing the merits of a fictional dog-man. "Anyway, I'm… I'm sorry for scaring you."

She lets out a little sigh.

"Apology accepted. Now I'll…" She swallows. "I'll just go over there," she waves towards the galley, "have something to drink and then… yeah, my bed's already calling for me."

He lets out an almost-chuckle – it's more awkward than amused –, then takes an unsure step backwards.

"And I'll… I'll just go back to my bunk. To sleep. See you in the morning." He turns around and starts walking towards his bunk, picking up his gun from the floor as he goes.

"Yeah, see ya," she waves. She actually waves. "Oh, and Ward?" she calls and he stops, turning his head back towards her. "Next time you hear noises in the dark, it's just most likely me bumping into things, okay? Not the boogeyman."

It actually makes him smile. He taps his temple with his finger.

"I'll keep it in mind. Good night, Skye."

"Good night, Robot."

* * *

They don't talk of the incident of the next morning, or any time after that. But he always makes sure that there is an extra blanket in the longue for her, should she be cold.


	112. Cohabitation, Take One

**Cohabitation, Take One**

Make no mistake: Grant liked to live with Skye. The pros heavily outweighed the cons – waking up together, sharing meals, cuddling in front of the TV, having somebody to come home to, exchanging stories when they worked on different missions, helping each other when they were on the same case, and, of course, sex, sex everywhere and anywhere in the apartment without the danger of being walked in on. Still, she could drive him up the wall sometimes, mostly with her messiness.

Grant liked his things to be in order – everything had its place, and when not in use, it had to be placed there. His files were organized. His books in alphabetical order. His clothes neatly out away (and no, he didn't fold his socks, thank you very much). Skye, on the contrary, liked what she called "organized chaos," which was, if you ask him, more "chaos" than "organized": her desk was a big mess of half packets of snack food, stray files, scribbles on pieces of paper and stray pendrives and cables; she had basically no system when it came to her clothes; and she tended to leave her things all over the apartment.

He loved her, loved living with her, but tidying up after her really wasn't high on his list. Especially after a day spent with never-ending meetings that led to nowhere (he had once heard Hill likening the Senate to kindergarten; he was sure they didn't even hold a torch to the feds).

And yet the first thing that welcomed him upon returning home was a hoodie – technically his, but long ago confiscated by Skye – left haphazardly on a chair by the kitchen counter. He let out an annoyed groan and picked it up, already mentally composing what he was going to say to Skye. But his thought process was cut short as, the hoodie now in his hands, he glanced toward the living room, and found a tank top on the back of the couch next.

Then a pair of pants on the hallway floor.

By the time he picked up the fuzzy, rainbow-colored socks from the floor halfway to the bathroom, he had a very good idea what was going on.

The bra hanging from the bathroom doorknob only confirmed it.

Her clothes stuffed into a ball under his arm, he opened the door and, with a grin on his face, stepped into the hot, sweet-scented room.

Skye was there, of course, sitting in the tub surrounded by so much foam that it almost completely hid her from him – he could only see her hair, pulled into a messy bun, and her eyes, crinkling in amusement. He didn't need to see to know that she was wearing a mischievous grin on her lips.

"What took you so long?"

(That night even his clothes ended up on the floor in a messy heap.)


	113. (Temporary) Goodbye

**A/N:** No, I didn't abandon this series, I was just working another projects - and been struggling with a minor writer's block recently. Anyway, I'm sorry for the delay, and I hope you'll enjoys this installment.

* * *

 **(Temporary) Goodbye**

She was being clingy and mushy and painfully stereotypical, and everybody could see it, and she just didn't give a damn.

She just _so_ didn't want him to go.

Pushing herself to the tip of her toes, she clung to him, burying her face in his neck.

"Hey, it's okay," Grant murmured into her ear, gently caressing her hair. "I'll be back before you know it."

She knew that. Of course she knew that. She knew every little aspect of the op, down to the last dot and cross, where were they going, what they were about to do, how dangerous it was (it wasn't that much, at least by their usual standards, but you never knew), but this didn't mean she was the slightest bit okay with him leaving.

She gave out some stubborn, whiny, unintelligible noise, and gripped his black tactical shirt even tighter.

"I don't care," she mumbled into his shoulder, a stubborn tear sliding down her cheek.

(She hated being like this. She hated getting teary eyed over basically everything. She hated being so damn emotional. Even if she had a pretty good excuse for it.)

He put his hand on her shoulder, and gently pushed her away, until she was standing in front of him, so he could look into her eyes. He lifted a hand and wiped a stray tear from under her eye with his thumb. She caught his wrist and held his palm against her cheek.

"Tomorrow morning. I'll be back by tomorrow morning. Maybe even before you wake up."

She sniffed.

"Just promise me you'll be careful."

"I always am."

The corner of her mouth twitched.

"Liar."

She knew all too well about his stupid, heroic, acting-before-thinking, leaping-into-the-middle-of-action, forgetting-about-the-hail-of-bullets tendencies, and that's why she liked being by his side during mission (some would say the same thing about her – that she was reckless –, which might even be true, but hey, at least they kept each other in check).

Only she couldn't do that anymore – not for a while, at least (but it was worth it).

Her free hand slid unconsciously to her stomach, resting on the slight curve.

"Everything's gonna be alright," he promised. "I'll check in frequently, I swear. You can even hack into the comms system, if you want," he said, then pressed one last kiss to her forehead.

She let out a teary chuckle, meeting his eyes.

"Alright. But if you come back dead, I'll kill you."

He didn't answer that, only smiled and kissed her quickly on the mouth while covering her hand with his over her belly, then bent down and picked up his bag with his tactical gear.

"Tomorrow," he promised, squeezing her hand before letting go.

"I'll want breakfast in bed. Pancakes," she tried to mask her sadness and worry with teasing. He got it.

"I love you," he said, then, just as the motors of the quinjet started to whirl, he turned around and hurried up the ramp.

She stood there for a while, looking at the sky with her hand still on her belly, until the jet disappeared and the hangar door closed. She knew, she just knew that he was right, that everything was going to be alright and that he would be back by the next morning. _Still_ , she thought, turning around and leaving the hangar, _it couldn't hurt to listen in on his mission_.


	114. Haylie in Trouble

**Haylie in Trouble**

Haylie, her eyes cast down, kept silent as they stepped out of the school building – which, itself, was rather unusual, as his daughter talked a mile a minute most of the times. Still, for once Grant was almost glad for it, because he hoped it meant that she was feeling at least a bit guilty.

He had gotten the call in the middle of a tactical meeting – it was Haylie's headmistress calling to inform him that his daughter had gotten into a fight, and was waiting for being picked up from school. So, yes, he was mildly… irritated, not just because he had had to leave a meeting where they were planning an intricate mission, but mostly because he had though they had raised Haylie better than this.

Haylie didn't say a word or even lift her head until they reached the car, where he stopped, arms crossed in front of his chest, and turned to her before she could have opened the backseat door.

"Don't you have something to say?" he asked – partially because he wanted to hear that she was sorry, and partially because there were still gaps in the story he hoped to fill –, making Haylie look up at him. She bit into her lower lip (she was so much like Skye when she did that), then her gaze flitted to the asphalt again.

"I'm sorry, daddy," she said in a small voice. "I'm sorry that you had to come here for me."

"That's it?" he asked with a slight edge in his voice.

Grant knew that she really was genuinely sorry for having him dragged here, that was no question. Skye was currently out of the country on a last-minute thing (oh, how he hated those! It made scheduling things almost impossible), so taking care of the girls was suddenly solely up to him for a day or two; and he had discussed it with them that he would be having a Very Important Meeting that day, and that Uncle Fitz would be picking them up from school and daycare, so Haylie had to know how important this tactical meeting must have been – and yet, he was here now, looking down at a pretty guilty-looking eight-year-old.

For the first time since he had picked her up from in front of the headmistress' office, Haylie looked at him with an almost defiant look in her eyes.

"I'm not sorry that I hit him!" she said, her shoulders stiffening, the corners of her mouth trembling in frustration. "I'm not!" He blinked at her, slightly taken aback by her outburst, but before he could have said anything, she continued. "He was calling Abbie names, daddy!"

Alright, that was new information – all that the headmistress had told him was that Haylie had gotten into a fight with a boy from her class. The how and the why was still a mystery to him.

"He was calling her names?" he asked, his voice significantly softer, to which Haylie nodded wildly.

"Yes, really bad ones. He was making her cry," she said, her own eyes getting teary.

"So you punched him?"

"No…" she said carefully. "At first I told him to stop doing it, nicely, like when mommy tells Uncle Lance to stop doing silly stuff for the first time," (he had a really hard time not to smile upon hearing that) "but he kept doing it."

"So then you punched him."

Haylie took a big breath, puffing her chest out. "Yes, I did. Right in the face," she said almost proudly. "Just to stop him being mean," she added as a clarification.

Grant sighed, being thankful and slightly annoyed at the same time for his daughter having a sense of justice worth of an agent at the age of eight, then he knelt down to be at eye level with Haylie.

"Show me your hand!" he said gently. Haylie only hesitated for a moment, then placed her tiny hand in her father's palm. Grant pushed back the sleeve of her cardigan to examine her hand; her knuckles were slightly red, and maybe a bit swollen – she even winced a bit as he gently pushed at her first knuckle –, but it didn't seem serious (still, he was getting a little bit furious at the school for not having the nurse take a look at her). "We'll have to ice it, but you'll live," he told her with a small smile. "And then what did happen?"

"He was a bit surprised at first," she said, the corner of her mouth twitching into a smile she knew she shouldn't be wearing, "but then he tried to grab my hair. So I stomped on his foot and pushed him to the ground, like you taught me." (Alright, it was something he couldn't deny. But then again, he only wanted his daughters to be able to defend themselves.) "But then the teacher came, and pulled us apart."

Grant swallowed and let go of her hand, not really knowing what to say now. A part of him just couldn't scold Haylie for stand up for a friend (also, a maybe slightly immature part of him was kind of proud at Haylie for going against a kid half a head taller and twenty pounds heavier than her, and, technically, winning), while the responsible parent in him wanted to tell her that it was not okay simply beating people up (no matter how much one wanted to do that from time to time).

"Look, princess," he started slowly, putting his hand on Haylie's shoulder. "I'm not going to say that you weren't right – calling people names is a mean thing to do –, but… do you know what makes mommy and daddy good agents?" Haylie shook her head, not even blinking. "We know when to call for back-up. Sometimes… sometimes it's just not our business to do things. Sometimes we have to call bigger guys, people who know more about the situation or have more right to take care of things, because that's the best for everybody."

"I should have asked for help, too?"

"Yes," Grant nodded, glad that she understood this. "Next time if something like this happens, just tell a teacher, okay?" he added, just to make things clear. "That way you won't get into trouble again."

"Okay," Haylie nodded confidently, then, grimacing for a moment, she added, "but I'm still not sorry that I punched him."

Grant let out a short laugh and kissed the top of Haylie's head.

"I was sure of that," he said, stood up, and opened the back door of the car for Haylie. "Now, hop in! I have a meeting to get back to – what do you say I drop you off at Uncle Fitz's lab until I finish?"

"Okay!" she said, climbing into the car, then stopped, and looked back at Grant. "Daddy? Are we okay now?"

Grant gave her a warm smile.

"We are. But we'll still have to tell mommy about this."

Haylie wrinkled her nose.

"Ouch!"

"Ouch indeed."


	115. California Girl, Massachusetts Boy

**California Girl, Massachusetts Boy**

"Where are you going?" he calls after her from the catwalk, a slight tone of suspicion, maybe even accusation in his voice (It's only been a week since they put a tracker on her wrist).

She stops on the lowered ramp and turns towards him, without wincing, without missing a beat. There's even a hint of a smile on her lips.

"I was just going to take a walk on the shore. I've been missing California" she says, not unkindly, then adds after a second, "Do you want to tag along?"

He regards her for a long moment, his head tilted slightly sideways, considering what she's just said before he replies, "Let me get my jacket."

* * *

"Oh, how I've been missing this!" Skye says, closing her eyes and turning her face towards the sun as they walk along the promenade. It's early March, and there's still an almost-chill in the air, but the sand is white and the tide is calm. She takes a deep breath. "The smell of the ocean, the sound of the waves…"

He tries not to stare.

"So you grew up around these parts?" he asks and hopes he's not being too lame. He's terrible at this – having idle conversation, talking about the past.

She softly shakes her head and leans against the low wall that runs along the pavement.

"Oh, no – the Saint Agnes was much more inland, and the nuns didn't have the… let's say capacity to bring us to the beach." She sighs and starts to fiddle with the sleeve of her sweater. "But my second foster family – I barely remember them anymore – brought me to the shore once. It stayed with me." She pauses and looks out to the water; he steps beside her, leaning against the wall as well, waiting for her to continue. "And then when I was sixteen, when I ran away, I…" She lets out a soft chuckle. "I came here, to the coast. I had a backpack full of clothes and two hundred bucks in my pocket and nothing else, and I hitchhiked here, hoping that once back to the ocean I'd… I'd figure out what to do next." She falls silent once again and closes her eyes for a moment, but before he could say anything, she opens them once again and turns towards him, a teasing smile on her face. "And what about you, Robot? Any great connection to the California shores?"

He chuckles in spite of himself.

"No, not really," he says, casting his eyes down for a second. "I'm from the East Coast, actually. Grew up in Boston, mostly."

"Yeah, I figured that."

"Really?" He looks at her.

"Sure. You sometimes skip the r's – that's how I can tell if you're relaxed. You don't pay much attention to how you speak," she tells him almost affectionately; almost as if she was amused by this.

He doesn't know what to do with this information – with the fact the she knows him enough – that she cares enough – to have noticed slight changes in his speech patterns and to be able to tie these to his moods. (Of course he knows how she likes her coffee and which is her favorite spot to sit in the lounge and that she hates plums, but that's completely beside the point.) He doesn't know how to react, what to say to this, so he turns back to Boston.

"I might not have had the California beach at my fingertips, but we did have a weekend house by the sea. And one in the mountain," he says and her eyes go wide.

"You had a weekend house by the sea _and_ one in the mountains? What was your family into, bank robbery?"

"Almost – politics."

She bursts out laughing – that genuine, carefree laugh that he has only heard a couple of times from her, and that makes his heart soar.

"Oh, jeez, I didn't know you had it in you!" she says after a little while, wiping her eyes, still grinning.

"I guess I have my moments," he smiles at her, completely under her spell. "Still, they were – and are – pretty much the pretentious assholes you'd think them to be. The kind with golf clubs and polo shirts on Saturday and cocktail parties on Sunday. I've never liked it, the facades and the games they played, but the place… it had its charm. Not even the sea that much, but I liked the winters, the snow…"

"Of course," she cuts in. "It was home."

"Not really," he shakes his head. "It never felt like home. It was just a place I lived. In fact…" he sighs, "I don't think I've ever felt at home, anywhere." Maybe he's not even capable of that, but he doesn't say it out loud.

"We are in the same boat then," she laments. "I've never stayed in a place long enough to call it a home. But, you know…" She sits on the edge of the wall and pulls her legs up. "Maybe it's not even a place. Maybe it's a person, or people," she says, not looking at him. "And sometimes I can't help but wonder… could this – us – the team – become a home? No matter where we are?"

A part of him wants to tell her yes, just to give her hope (if somebody deserves to have a home, it's her), but the other part of him is too much of a sceptic for that. So, in the end, he simply shrugs.

"I don't know. I guess the best we can do is to wait and see."

She hums in a low voice, considering it.

"Yeah, you might be right," she says, then the next moment she shakes her head and jumps from the wall. "Now let's go! It's getting late, and I wanna have a hot-dog before we head back." And with that she grabs his hand, and starts pulling him forward.

He doesn't say a word. He doesn't pull his hand away. He simply follows her.


	116. I Just Want to Take His Breath Away

**I Just Want to Take His Breath Away**

Skye had a good idea of how it was supposed to work – she was a female in her twenties, with sometimes a little bit too much free time on her hands (an with an occasional insomnia), so of course she had binge watched _Say Yes to the Dress_ and its different permutations a couple of times. She scowled at the problematic brides-to-be and watched the dresses in awe, but she just… well… she just never imagined herself in that situation.

And yet here she was now, in a bridal saloon (it was no Kleinfeld, but it was fancy enough to put her on edge), with a whole dress shopping party (if it was up to her, she'd have come with Jemma alone, but because of some reason that was beyond her comprehension, basically every female from the base, plus Coulson's Audrey had tagged along), about to face a perky consultant (who, at least, was wearing jeans, which was somewhat reassuring), and she had absolutely no idea of what she wanted.

There was only one thing she knew – that she wanted something white, but that was only because Grant had told her that he had wanted to do things _right, in the proper way_ , and that meant a tux and a white dress and a walk along the aisle. Even thought she was half-sure that "white" was a taboo word here – in a place like this, everything was ivory and cream and ecru.

The consultant tried to chat her up while she took her measurements – asked if she had a particular dress in mind (she didn't), if she had a favorite designer (she couldn't even name one), and if she knew what kind of skirt and bodice and neckline she wanted (she just shrugged).

(At least she didn't ask her about Grant, like the people do in _Say Yes to the Dress_ , when the brides speak for about ten seconds about their fiancés. Because what can you say about the love of your life to a person you'd never met before, in two sentences? _He's great, he's caring, he gets me, he tells lame jokes, acts tough but gets easily flustered, he hates to admit that he likes and needs to be cared for, and he wouldn't just kill for me, but he's already done it, and would do it again_. Skye severely doubted it would have helped the consultant to get a picture of Grant and brought them closer to finding her dress.)

But, to the consultant's absolute credit, she didn't look annoyed a bit, and her gentle smile never faltered for a moment. When she finished taking Skye's measurements and tucked her measuring tape back into her pocket, she looked at her, and in an ever so patient voice she asked, "So, do you have any special requests?"

Skye just blinked at her first, then, her voice cracking a bit, she said quietly, "I just want to take his breath away."

The consultant's smile widened.

"Then you are at right place, dear."

And then she basically drowned Skye in dresses – dresses chosen randomly, dresses in different shades and cuts and forms, just to find a direction she liked. To find something that made her feel like a bride. Only no matter what Skye tried on, and no matter how her companions praised it when she walked out of the changing room (they seemed to grow louder with each dress), it just wasn't coming; she still just felt like the girl in the van in flannel shirts. Like a little girl playing masquerade.

In a ball gown, she felt like a snowflake on steroids. The mermaid-style made her feel like she was wearing a straightjacket made out of silk. To the one with long sleeves, she actually noted that she felt like as if she had just walked out of a convent.

Her hope of finding a dress – not just now, but _ever_ – shrunk as time went on and the pile of rejected dresses grew. She really was just about to give up – say sorry to the consultant, put her jeans back on, go home, and convince Grant to sneak away to Vegas and have Elvis marry them, maybe wearing tac gear.

But then the consultant gave her something light – to be honest, she was so deep in her thoughts (in her hopelessness and self-pity), that she wasn't even paying that much attention to it. She vaguely noticed the lace and how soft it was as she slipped it on, but she didn't actually see what it was until she walked out of the dressing room and stood on the small pedestal in front of the mirror.

But then her eyes went wide and her lips parted slightly.

It was crazy, but it was if… as if she wasn't even looking at herself, but it was still _her_.

The whole dress was made of some soft, gentle, lacy material that fit her like a glove; the sweetheart neckline was teasing, but modest enough, the line of the dress highlighted her curves perfectly, but the skirt flared out from her knees, giving it a romantic twist. And the back… the back was non-existent, daring and teasing and sexy, without being slutty, and she could feel the air caressing her skin.

And she… she looked like a bride. And she felt like a bride. For the first time since he had slipped that ring on her finger, she could hear the music and see herself walk along the aisle, and she could just see his face light up as he spotted her, and she could feel her heart flutter in her chest, and…

And it just hit her.

"Oh my god," she gasped, raising her hand to her mouth and trying to blink away the tears that suddenly threatened to spill from her eyes. "Oh my god… I'm getting married."

There was some light chuckling from behind her, and then suddenly the consultant was by her side, offering her a tissue.

"Then I assume we have found your dress?"

Barely being able to tear her gaze away from her reflection, Skye nodded.

"Yes, we most definitely have."

(Suddenly, Vegas seemed like a terrible idea, and she just could wait for the whole fanfare that came with a proper wedding.)

(She couldn't wait to see his face.)


	117. Nana

**Nana**

Grant was sitting the room that Skye dubbed as her home office (which, in reality, was barely bigger than a closet and really didn't deserve such title, but he humored her), peacefully reading a mission report from last week and enjoying a moment of silence–which was so hard to come by these days–, when he saw something move from the corner of his eye. Raising his gaze from the document, he turned towards the slightly ajar door, just in time to see a small, brown muzzle appear in the opening, nudging it wider, until the pup's whole body fit through it. Then, almost as if she hadn't just pulled a Houdini, the dog trotted to the corner and all but threw herself into Captain's old basket, then looked up at Grant with tired eyes, almost as if she wanted to say _I'm done_.

Despite his best efforts, Grant just couldn't stand this sight without breaking into a smile–especially since the dog had a tutu around her neck and a tiara on the top of her head.

To be completely honest, Grant hadn't been the biggest fan of the pup–Nana, the girls called her–when she first got there nearly four weeks ago, mostly because no-one ( _one particular somebody_ ) thought about clearing it with him and Skye. Nope.

They were celebrating Haylie's sixth birthday, which meant that the backyard was swarming with guests: their old team, Haylie's friends from school, and a couple of parents. Which meant that the chaos was done, baked and served even before his ever-so-helpful father-in-law arrived bearing an enormous cardboard box that _yelped_.

And he really couldn't have told Cal to take it back when a horde of six-year-olds was already fawning over the sandy collie pup that poked her head out of the box.

This was really not a time to get a puppy–they were expecting their third baby in less than two months, and Grant had an idea that the newborn, plus the Haylie and Ada, would require all of their energy. But, of course, Cal had a counter-argument for all of Grant's arguments: their old shelter dog, Captain, who had been with them ever since they moved into this house when Haylie had been barely over a year old, was really getting old–almost completely blind and not even trying to get up the stairs anymore to slip into the bedrooms, he was clearly living on borrowed time. And, Cal reasoned, if the girls had another dog to occupy them, Captain's impending death maybe wouldn't hit them that hard. Not to mention that the presence of the pup would likely make them feel less neglected when their baby sister got there, getting ahead of jealousy. Also, he pointed out, having a pup would teach them some responsibility.

And anyway, who would be that cruel to have a little girl's birthday present from her grandpa taken back? (Cal didn't actually say this, but Grant was sure that it was implied.) It also didn't help that Skye was won over the moment she looked at the dog, and Grant had learned a long ago not to argue with her when she was pregnant.

So despite of Grant's disapproving frown, the dog, this hyperactive ball of fur, stayed.

And four weeks later, he had made peace with it.

"What's up, Nana?" he asked the dog, inching his office chair closer to her. "The girls are wearing you down?" Nana, not moving from the cushions, only answered with a lazy wag of her tail, making Grant chuckle. "I feel you, they can be pretty exhausting. Now, let me help you…" He reached down, and gently pried the tiara and the tutu from the dog. "Better, right?" Another wag. "But they worth it, you know?" he continued telling the dog, even though she only blinked back at him, her head resting on her paws. "That's why we are having a third of them. Crazy, right?" Nana yawned, almost as if telling him that he was mad. Grant smiled and scratched the top of her head. "Just wait until you have another little person to pull your tail! But until then…" He nudged the door closed and slid the chair back to the desk. "…You can hide out her for a little bit, I won't say a word. If you let me work, I'll let you sleep. Deal?"

Nana, completely as if agreeing to this arrangement, yawned, then turned towards the wall, and promptly fell asleep.

So, yeah, that pup might have grown on Grant.

* * *

 **A/N:** Oh, how I was missing this 'verse! Also, a little reminder: Captain was introduced in Ch. 12 - Mini Heroes, appearing to be a rather lazy, but affectionate dog, then he was seen again in Ch. 108 – Late Night Visitor, furthering the image of the useless but loveable dog. Chronologically, his last mention is in Ch. 90 – Goodbye –it is noted there that he died when Ellie was just a baby, so I had to work around that.


	118. Silent Night

**Silent Night**

Being a light sleeper–which is basically a prerequisite of his job–can be a curse sometimes. For example when he wakes with a jolt, ready for battle, at the first gentle tap on his shoulder in the middle of the night.

"Grant?" Skye whispers in the dark, tapping his shoulder again, just to be sure. His first reaction is panic–morning is still hours away, it's quiet, there's no reason to get up yet, and yet there she is, sitting on the bed with her legs tucked under her, waking him up for some reason–and the reason, his brain supplies, can only be some kind of emergency. But then she continues, "It's four a.m.," she says with a smile so wide he can even see it in the darkness.

He blinks, still not quite understanding what's going on. "What?"

"It's four a.m.," Skye repeats, putting emphasis on every single word as, if it's even possible, her smile goes even wider.

He is just about to ask for further clarification, when he suddenly _gets it_. Reaching for the nightstand, he grabs the baby monitor, just to check if it's working–but the "on" light's on, and he can even hear some soft, regular breathing on the other end. It's definitely functioning.

"And she's not…?" he starts, and Skye answers even before he could finish the question.

"Not a squeak," she says, and he can actually hear her excitement levels rising. He falls back on the pillow with a silent laugh– _wow_ , they've actually reached this milestone, or so it seems, and he won't lie and say that he hasn't been waiting for this. But before he could give voice to his delight, he feels the mattress move as Skye climbs out of bed, and, barefoot, heads for the door.

"Where are you going?" he sits up quickly, instinctively wanting to stop her. But she only stops for a moment at the threshold, looking back at him.

"I'm just taking a _little_ peek," she promises, holding her thumb and forefinger close, then she's out of the room. And Grant, half wanting to see it himself, and half wanting to stop her doing anything stupid, goes after her.

The floor is cold under his bare feet, but he barely registers it as he sneaks into the next room, slipping through the door Skye left open (he has to give it to her–her stealth skills are getting better, as he didn't even hear her opening the door). Skye's there, standing by the crib, resting her hands lightly on the railing, so he steps behind her, slipping his arms around her waist and looking over her shoulder.

Haylie's there in her crib, being her usual, totally adorable self, hugging that terrible monkey plushie she got from Fitz when she was born to her chest, _sleeping soundly_. And she's been, apparently, asleep for six, almost seven hours, in one stretch, which is a first, something he's really glad for.

They stand there for a couple of seconds, not saying a word–both afraid to jinx it or simply wake her up–, then, when he feels that Skye would stand there until morning if she was left to her own devices (not that he doesn't need to gather all of his willpower to move), he gently nudges her away from the crib, towards the door. It takes her a moment to get the message, but then she kisses two of her fingers and presses them lightly against the baby's forehead, then the two of them, as silently as they came, tiptoe out of the nursery.

Neither of them talks until the door is closed behind them.

"With some luck," he says once the lock clicks, pulling her close to him and going for a quick kiss, "she's inherited your sleeping habits."

She chuckles and nuzzles against his chest. "Oh, I really hope so–better mine than yours. I love her to bits, but I need to sleep sometimes." Almost as if to prove her point, she yawns. He can't help but smile seeing it. "What do you say we enjoy this miracle while it lasts?"

He slips an arm around her shoulder, leading her back to their room. "It's almost as if you're reading my mind."

"Yeah, I'm getting better and better at hacking your program," she replies, stifling another yawn, as she climbs back into bed and slips beneath the covers.

He is just about to answer when he realizes that it's futile–she's already fallen asleep. So he just smiles to himself, lies down, draws her close to his chest, and closes his eyes.

(They get a little bit more than two more hours of sleep–Haylie finally wakes at six oh seven a.m., loudly demanding attention right away. But it does not negate the fact that she, for the very first time, _slept through the whole night_ –as Skye brags about it anybody who'll listen the next day.)


	119. Baby Steps

**A/N:** This one is for 924inlegend on Tumblr–I reblogged one of her amazing Skyeward manip sets with a tag saying that I kinda want to write something about it, and then she wrote to me in private about happy she'd be about it. So the least I could do was to actually write something :)

* * *

 **Baby Steps**

She doesn't know what she is doing. They are not friends, and definitely not lovers; maybe not even partners. He is just an Inhuman on her team–because every Inhuman is one of her people, and the least she can do is give them a chance to prove themselves, no matter who they were and what they did before they changed.

And yet he almost took a bullet for her today (maybe if someone asked _him_ who she is to him, he'd answer differently), so when they get back to the base, tired and sweaty, but all in one piece, and she says _thank you_ to him, and then he asks her, not even meeting her eyes, because he's freaking _shy_ (like a kicked puppy) if she'd like to grab a bite sometime, she simply nods.

(She asks herself later, while lying awake in her bed, _why_ she said yes. She doesn't know.)

By the next morning, she almost convinces herself that it was just a dream, or that he wasn't being serious about his invitation. But then there's a knock on her door in the late afternoon.

"You know the thing we talked about yesterday?" he asks, standing on her threshold, his hands hidden behind his back. "Is now good?"

She almost says no. Just because she can. Just because this whole thing is absurd. (Just because the wound is still somewhat raw.) But then she thinks it over–why should she say no? She told him, after all, that being on her team means a blank slate–going back on her word and acting out of spite just wouldn't be fair. And anyway, she is kind of hungry.

"Yeah, sure," she says with a shrug, reaching for her jacket.

(There's a tiny smile in the corner of his mouth.)

"That's… good." She notices the barely-there pause, and can't help but think that he had to stop himself before he could have used a more enthusiastic adjective. "I know a place, it's not far–if that's okay?"

She shrugs again. "It's okay with me. I'm getting tired of the take out places we frequent anyway," she adds with a smile. (She doesn't know why she is being like this–casual, flirty. Almost like _before._ )

(But then again, what would be the point in acting hostile?)

All the way there she keeps telling herself that _it's not a date_ –even when he opens the car door for her and tries to make awkward small talk during the ride. _Of course_ it's not a date–there's none of the usual, pleasant nervousness; she didn't change her outfit three times, and didn't fret over her hair and make-up; there are no butterflies or sweaty palms. It's just a dinner among… co-workers after a successful mission.

(She keeps telling herself this even when her heart skips a beat when, at the restaurant, he stubbornly helps her out of the car.)

She has to admit, it's a nice place–it has a roaring twenties-speakeasy feeling with its burgundy walls and wood paneling, while, somehow, the flames crackling in the fireplace remind her of a gentlemen's club in the Victorian London; it's a strange mix, but she likes it, even though she feel criminally underdressed.

They are seated right away (he must be known around here), and he orders wine (she shudders; wine is such a _date_ drink), something with a name so fancy, she couldn't even pronounce it. And then they just sit there, looking at each other awkwardly (she is so grateful that the table is comfortably wide), their menus untouched. He clears his throat once, as if he wants to say something, but then keeps silent; she clears hers about ten seconds later, and it's almost comical, almost as if she was copying him.

When the waiter gets back to take their orders, she still hasn't opened her menu; but when she finally does, it's not much help either–it's all nonsense to her. Three seconds pass, the waiter waiting, and she is just about to point at something and hope for the best, when Ward says, "May I?"

She looks up at him. "Sorry?"

"May I order for you?" he asks. She is hesitant for a moment (somehow this is going way beyond her comfort zone), but then she nods. Why not? So then he turns to the waiter and orders for both of them, using more French words than English ones. When he is done, he turns back to her. "I'm sure you'll like it," he says, and for some reason she has no doubts about it (he always paid attention to the minutest details about her.)

So she nods and says, "Thank you."

She then expects the awkward silent to return, and it does; but only for a short while.

"Have I…" He starts, then stops, clearing his throat. "Have I ever told you about that mission when I had to pose as a waiter?"

She frowns, then blinks, then rests her elbows on the tabletop, and her chin in her hand, listening.

"No, what happened?"

"It was in Paris. It was, actually, my last op before joining the Team, and…"

By the time their food arrives (it is delicious; he really knows what she likes) she is laughing–truly, genuinely, the kind of laugh that comes from deep within her stomach, trying to imagine Ward's face when he came face-to-face with his target's scantily clad, aloof mistress.

The rest of the evening goes by with trading stories–hers about the hobo she befriended after he tried to break into her van; his about a stint when he was undercover as a teacher's assistant at an Argentinean university, and one of the students made a pass at him. It's strange–in a way that she forgets that this whole situation is supposed to be strange, and that he is not a friend or a partner or anything, and that there was a time when it was this easy to click with him (at a point she stops even thinking that _it's not a date_ ). She is a having such a nice time that she insists on ordering dessert, not because she so wants it, but because she doesn't want the evening to end yet.

But the evening does end–he pays the bill, they walk back to the car, and she doesn't even find it strange when he opens the door for her.

"You know," he says once they roll out of the parking lot, his eyes on the road. "We should do this more often." He lays his right hand, palm up, on the armrest between the two seats, so casually it almost seems like an accident.

She smiles into the darkness and slips her hand into his.

"Yeah, that'd be nice."


	120. Legacy

**A/N:** Okay, I'm slowly working my way through my old picture drabble request, picking the ones I have an idea for as I go. For this one, I had a pretty specific prompt, which I modified a little to fit the situation I imagined better. But the gist remained the same: Skyeward baby is experiencing the hardships of having famous agents for parents at the Academy. Beyond that, this piece also sees the first appearance of a character who has been on my mind for a while now, but I haven't had the chance to introduce yet.

* * *

 **Legacy**

At first, the Academy is complete fun. Haylie's class is a wild bunch, full of crazy, loud and adventurous people who laugh over showing up hangover at Agent Stanhope's Monday morning lecture, and she loves them for it.

Then it all changes with the first "Hey, I hate to be a bother, but I was wondering… Aren't you related to _those_ Wards?" kind of question.

Because yeah, she is related to _those_ Wards–yes, the Head of Operations and the Head of the Metahuman Committee, those agents who have been with S.H.I.E.L.D. since before The Fall, are her parents (and she is related to the other kind of Wards as well, the politicians, but _nobody_ talks about that). And yes, she knows former Director Coulson, and Melinda May, and a bunch of other "famous" people. She _grew up knowing them._ But she is so much more than that.

Only people don't seem to be able to grasp this concept. Because at first it's just _oohing_ and _aahing_ and "that's so freaking cool." But then people are whispering behind her back– _look, she is the Ward girl,_ that _Ward girl_ –, and whenever a mission her parents took part in come up in class everybody is looking at her, waiting for her to spurt out classified details or whatnot, and before she knows it, an upperclassman is stopping her on her way to class, because he just needs to know how this or that op really went for his homework and Haylie must know it, since her parents were on that op.

So the Academy soon ceases to be a fun place, and her loud and crazy classmates soon become simply too much.

A month in, she is just _so fed up_ with the whole thing–so much that, for the first time since she was fifteen, she starts to question herself whether she really wants to be an agent. A Wednesday is particularly bad, when a guy just keeps following her around the whole morning, wanting to know every little detail about the mission in Hong Kong in 2013, even though Haylie keeps telling him that she has no idea of what happened in Hong Kong in 2013.

By lunchtime, she's just had enough, so she hides away on the edge of the campus, at the old oak tree with its conveniently low-hanging branches she loves to sit on; that's where Aiden finds her.

"Hey there, Lady Elf," he says, walking up to the tree with his hands deep in his pockets. "Why the long face?"

Haylie can't help but smile at the nickname. She met Aiden right before training started, at a team building event held for the new recruits. She was just about to introduce herself to him, when he raised his hands to stop her, told her that he just sucked at remembering names, and that he'd just simply call her _Lady Elf_ , because she "looked like an elf"–having inherited her father's tall and slender frame, she couldn't even argue with him, so she simply laughed and told him that if she's an elf, then he's a troll. And that day a friendship was born.

"Hey back to you, Lord Troll," she replies. "I hate my name."

"Why? It's a pretty decent name," Aiden says, leaning against the trunk of the tree. "Haylie Grace Ward. It has a nice ring to it, if you ask me."

Haylie chuckles at his antics. "You know what I mean."

Aiden frowns. "They were at it again?"

"As usual," she nods. "Today it was about some mission in Hong Kong like… a hundred years ago. As if I know all my parents' missions by heart!"

Aiden snorts. "Shame on you, really. It would be the least to cram in… Hey!" He doesn't get to finish the sentence, because she kicks towards him, missing his head only by a couple of inches.

"Don't want me to hurt you!" she laughs as Aiden collects himself, dusting off nonexistent dirt from the shoulder of his shirt.

"That was low, Ward."

"Not low enough, apparently," she says, and they both chuckle at her terrible joke. But as their laughter tapers off, Haylie leans back against the trunk, one leg hanging off the branch, and sighs. "But do you know what I hate about the whole deal the most?"

He shakes his head, looking up at her as he slowly sinks down and sits on the grass. "No, Lady Elf. Indulge me, please."

Haylie closes her eyes and takes a deep breath before continuing. "It's just… I never thought of my parents as 'agents,' I guess. I mean, of course, I knew what they were doing, I've heard all the stories, and I practically grew up in the Triskelion, but…" Another sigh. "They were never really 'agents' to me. Does it even make sense?" She looks down at Aiden, and he solemnly nods.

"It does. Go on!" he waves, almost like a conductor.

"So then I come here, and hear nothing else, just how amazing they are, and how they solved this and that situation–my textbooks are full of them and the other members of my family!" she lets out a dry chuckle. "But these… these… superhuman-personas who do nothing else but save the world are not how I know them."

"Interjection," Aiden cuts in, raising his hand, "your family _is_ pretty much made of superhumans. Well, at least your mom is one. And, you know," he shrugs, "you too."

"That's not the point!" Haylie almost whines, raking her fingers through her hair in frustration. "What I mean is…" She sighs. "What I mean is that my _mom_ is the person who sat with my on Saturday mornings, watching cartoons and eating cocoa puffs by the handful. The person who sat me on her lap and showed me the basics of hacking. And my _dad_ made pancakes on Sunday mornings, and wrestled with me and my sisters on the living room floor, always letting us win. And my _Grandpa Phil_ had the best stories, and _Grandma Mel_ would take us out for ice-cream if we didn't tell our parents. What I mean is… They are my family, first and foremost. And they may be… _partially_ … the reason why I am here today, but… I'm more than them, and they are more than what people see them as," she concludes with a shrug. "And I just wish they could see that."

Aiden is silent for a moment after she finishes, then he sniffs, and says, "Alright, that is kind of tough. Not tragic, but tough. I'd even give you a hug to make it better if you were on my level," he teases, looking up at her, sitting on the branch. "But hey, Lady Elf, I have an idea–let's have a party at your parents' place without asking, invite the whole class, thrash in furniture a bit, get your sisters drunk, and then have your parents walk in on it. I'm sure the chewing you'd get would remind the guys that they are just people, too."

Haylie laughs out loud at that. "Yeah, I'm pretty sure all I'd get, after the initial freak out, would be a shrug and a "we've done worse."" Then, with a smirk, she adds, "And admit it–you just want an excuse to party."

"You know me, Lady Elf," Aiden says with a dramatic sigh. "But now would you please descend to my level? I'd hate to be late from Callum's class."

Still chuckling, Haylie leaps down from the branch and lands gracefully on the grass, just as Aiden gets to his feet. She links their arms together and they start walking back towards the center of campus.

"But," Aiden says after a couple of steps, "acknowledging your mental trauma, I can offer you a drink tonight to ease your pain."

Haylie playfully nudges his side with her elbow. "Throw in a pizza too, and I'm in."


	121. The Curious Incident of the Puppy

**The Curious Incident of the Puppy in the Night-Time**

It wasn't even the noise that woke him, but the profound sense that _something was not right_ –a feeling that, thanks to years and years of experience, had his palm itch for a weapon. But it was also experience that told him not to jump into action right away, but to assess the situation first, so he remained still. His hand slowly inching towards the nightstand, just to make sure that the ICER he kept there was within reach, he opened his eyes, staring into the semi-darkness of the room, and _listened_ –and he could have sworn he heard something from downstairs.

"Skye," he whispered, reaching out to shake her shoulder gently as she lay next to him, on her side, with her back to him (and feeling just a little bit guilty about waking her right away). "Have you heard something?"

"Yeah," she mumbled, pulling the sheets closer to her body, "you. Just right now. It's mighty annoying."

Despite the situation and his rising alarm, he found himself smirking at that.

"I meant from downstairs," he clarified, craning his neck, as if he could have a better look at downstairs that way. "I'm sure I've heard something."

"No, but I'll take your word for it," she replied in a tone that was somewhat equally sleepy, annoyed, and amused. "But if it's a burglar again, it's your turn to deal with it. Maybe you should sit him down, offer him a drink, and tell him about your two thousand-yard-shot. Or how you once fought off half a dozen men all by yourself. Or any mission story, really. I'm not picky."

He appreciated her humor, he really did–it was one of the reasons he loved her–, but right then he really wasn't in the mood for this.

"Maybe you should take this a little more seriously," he said a little reproachfully, his voice, without his explicit permission, rising from a whisper to normal volume. "We have two kids in the house, after all."

There was a moment of silence–complete, terrifying silence–, and then she sat up and turned towards him, one hand propping herself up, the other sliding down to her belly. Even in the near darkness, he could see her furrowed brows–a surefire sign that she was _not exactly content_ with his behavior.

"Maybe you should remember," she said, giving clear emphasis to each word, "that next to the two kids, we also have two _dogs_ in the house. And one of them is a puppy. And what do puppies do during the night, in a strange place, if they are alone? They make a racket."

Grant blinked and swallowed. Yeah, there was something in what she was saying–he had completely forgotten about the little, tawny fluffball his dear father-in-law had presented his eldest with earlier that day (without consulting either him or Skye, nonetheless).

"Yeah," he nodded (admitting defeat), already swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. "I'd better go and check on the puppy."

Skye's lips pulled into a small smile as she lay back down, caressing her belly. "Good boy."

Barefoot, he walked down the hallway and the stairs quietly, listening, but hearing nothing, only the creaks and moans the house produced from time to time (when they had first moved in, Skye swore the old house was haunted, and they were sharing a living space with the previous owner). But this changed as soon as he got to the bottom of the stairs–down there he could hear right away the not-so-quiet whispering, punctuated by excited yapping from time to time, which seemed to come from the direction of the laundry room, where they had settled the new dog in for the night. Now smiling he made his way over there, shaking his head when he saw the tell-tale light spilling from under the laundry room door.

His daughters still had a lot to learn about being sneaky (or maybe not; for the sake of his sanity).

For a couple of moments, he just stood in front of the door, his arms crossed, listening to the muffled sounds of what was going on inside: giggling, hushing, more giggling, failed whispering, and a happy dog panting and yapping. Then, biting into his lip so he wouldn't laugh, he reached for the doorknob and opened the door.

The laundry room went _mostly_ quiet as soon as he stepped in–the girl, being caught, froze like deer in the headlights, looking up at him with widened eyes, which actually gave him a chance to take in the scene in front of him. The girls were on the floor, both in their pajamas, Ada sitting slightly to the side, her thumb in her mouth (a habit they'd been trying to break), while Haylie lay on her tummy, right next to the dog, who, Grant could have sworn, was copying his firstborn's stance, looking up at him with her tongue hanging out of her mouth.

Honestly, if it wasn't for the fact that the girls should have been asleep hours ago, he would have found them completely adorable and photo-worthy.

After a beat or two it was, of course, Haylie who recovered first. She blinked, smiled, and looked at him with such a feigned innocence that it eerily reminded him of his very first meeting with Skye.

"Hi, daddy," she said so casually as if he was just picking her up from school. "Wanna play with us?" She smiled at him with a disarming smile (he had a feeling that this child would make his life greatly difficult in ten years or so).

"It's kind of you to ask," he said just as cordially as he lowered himself on the floor to sit in front of Haylie. The dog–Nana, that was the name the girls gave her–started waggling her tail right away, crawling forward a bit so she could lick his toes. "But I have a question on my own–shouldn't you be in bed right now?"

Haylie made a show of considering this, sitting up and rubbing her chin (a gesture Grant was sure she had learned from Fitz), while Ada quietly climbed into his lap and buried her head in his chest, showing just how tired she really was. Finally, Haylie let out a dramatic sigh.

"But Nana was so alone, feeling so lonely and _scared_ , daddy," she said, "and you and mommy _always_ say that nobody should be left alone, so we just _had to_ come down to her," Haylie explained as seriously as any six-year-old is capable. "We had to."

Ada sleepily nodded against his chest, her tiny fist tightening on the material of his shirt, while Grant fought very hard not to laugh. Leave it to his daughter to turn his own words on him in a way he couldn't even argue with. He loved his firstborn to the moon and back, but he kind of hoped that the new baby would be less handful than Haylie.

"Well, she seems okay to me now–you've reassured her, I guess, that she's in a nice place, so she'll be okay until morning. Which means that you girls can go to sleep now," he said, moving to stand up, Ada, already half-asleep, cradled against his chest.

Haylie remained sitting on the floor, curling her arms around the dog's neck and looking up at him with pleading eyes. "But what if she gets lonely again? Or scared? Or has a bad dream? Hm, daddy?" she ended with an almost accusatory note, as if in the listed cases the dog's woes would be all his fault.

Grant sighed. What harm it would do, really? And it was Haylie's birthday, after all. _And_ he had always had a problem saying his daughter no.

"Alright," he said at last, adjusting Ada on his hip and deciding (maybe a little too soon) that it was the best course of action, "then what if Nana sleeps with you and Ada tonight in your room, so you can protect her? But only tonight."

Haylie beamed up at him.

"That would be perfect, daddy."

* * *

From then on in, he had an easy enough job–he carried Ada up the stairs, Haylie leading the dog up right in front of them. He tucked the girls in without any fuss–Ada was already asleep by the time he laid her down in the bed–, laid an old blanket down on the carpet for the dog to sleep on by the bed, kissed Haylie and Ada goodnight, then, making sure that the nightlight was on, left the room. He stood in front of the door for a couple of more minutes, listening, but he heard nothing–it seemed like that, finally, everyone but him was asleep in the house.

Yawning and rubbing his eyes, he made his way back to the master bedroom, opening the door quietly, trying not to wake Skye–only, it seemed like, she hadn't fallen back to sleep yet in the first place.

"Have you found the burglar?" she asked, sleepily, without moving an inch.

"No," he replied as he slipped back under the covers. "I only found two babies in the laundry room, playing with the dog."

"Told you so," she said, sounding only slightly smug. "How did you lure them away without a tantrum?"

Grant settled on his side, lying close enough to her so he could drape an arm around her middle. "I told them the dog can sleep with them. Only tonight, of course."

He didn't have to see her to feel chuckle. "Oh, you are so naïve."

(He hated when she was right.)


	122. Mission Interlude I

**A/N:** I'm a bit stuck with the bigger project I'm working on right now, so I decided to take a little break from it and write something light.

* * *

 **Mission Interlude I**

"What," Grant starts sharply, "the hell are you wearing?"

Skye blinks back at him half innocently, half indignantly. "Clothes. You know, the kind people might wear to the beach?"

He inhales through his nose, trying not to do anything stupid–because, let's be honest, he is rather close to it. Because it's not simply _clothes_ what she is wearing, it's… It should be illegal, honestly. Sinfully short shorts that make her legs look tantalizingly long, and a dark, loose top that leaves most of her back bare and highlights the curve of her breasts, and she has bracelets on, big, silver bracelets (he's never known he had a thing for bracelets until now), and these temporary tattoos that gleam like metal, and her hair is tousled, asking him to run his fingers through it, and…

"You are not going up to him dressed like that," he states in a voice he hopes sounds authoritative, and not whiny or insecure or jealous (he has a feeling he is not really succeeding).

Now she really looks mad.

"Yes I am going up to him dressed like this," she replies in the exact tone he hoped to hit. "Because we need the information the guy has–you know, the clueless hedge fund kid with the HYDRA daddy–, and we know that he is more likely to talk to pretty girls. Hence," she points at her outfit, "this. Currently I'm the embodiment of the guy's fantasies, at least if we can believe his digital footprint." She crosses her arms. "And I distinctly remember _you_ telling me that this is _exactly_ what I should go for in Undercover 101."

He hates when she turns his own word against him. Especially when she's right.

"We didn't even have 'Undercover 101'," he says, mostly for the sake of saying something.

The corner of her mouth twitches as she lets her arms drop against her side. "You know what I mean. And hey," she steps closer to him and puts her arms around his neck. His hands find their place on her waist instinctively, his thumbs touching bare skin. "You are my Robot, no-one else." A quick peck. "And I'm a big girl, I can take care of myself. After all, I had a great teacher."

"I'll still be watching," he says more focused on her lips than anything else. She smiles.

"I'd be disappointed if you didn't." She untangles her arms from around his neck. "I'd better get going now. But if everything goes well," she continues with a mischievous glint in her eyes, "I'll let you take me out tonight. In this outfit. And we'll see what happens." And she winks, then turns around, walking down the spiral staircase.

He just chuckles to himself at first, shaking his head, but then steps to the railing and calls after her, just before she'd walk down the ramp of the cargo hold.

"Skye?" She stops and glances back at him, waiting. "You look… great."

She smiles. "You see? You could have _started_ with this."


End file.
